


Acquainted with the Night

by caprelloidea



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Blood, Dark One Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Dark One Emma Swan, Eventual Smut, F/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-05 18:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 101,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11018739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caprelloidea/pseuds/caprelloidea
Summary: In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur.  Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin.  He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story began with a simple idea: what if I wrote an EF AU where both Emma and Killian were Dark Ones? And now, about a year later, here it is! It is completely finished, and will be updated on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Endless love, devotion, and gratitude to ripplestitchskein, without whom this story would never have happened, and thanks to unfolded73 for reading this through, and giving me invaluable pointers. Title borrowed from the titular poem by Robert Frost.

There was little that compared, Emma decided, to the weight of a blade in one’s hands.  When it was well-forged, the hilt balanced neatly between her thumbs and forefingers, the others joining just behind to caress the gilded handle.  The filigree pressed arcane indents into the palms of her hands, swooping letters that spelled her own name, and another’s.  The blade itself was swiveled, leaping in smooth currents down towards the deadly taper, tipped up and out, the way her father had taught her.

_Father_ , she thought, in many voices, most not her own.

The darkness was funny that way.  It had crept up on her, taking insidious hold of everything she once held dear, twisting it until it was unrecognizable, the hollows left behind filled to brimming with hatred, anger, and single-minded pursuit.

_Of what?_ Emma wondered, dazed.

_Of power_ , a voice answered.

_Of freedom_ , said another.

_Love_ , she thought, wildly.

“Love.”

Emma looked up.  The sunlight, dim and hazy overhead, glinted dully off the blade in her hands.  It danced in the shadows stretching out beneath her feet.  A moment, and then she realized that it was because the sword trembled in her hands.  Or rather, her hands trembled, harder still when she looked upon the man who stood opposite the hilt.

“Love,” he repeated.  “You know what you have to do.”

The soil underfoot began to turn, and the limbs of the trees at his back began to quake.  The ringing in her ears ceased, and the sounds of the battle raging down over the hill took precedent.  With the grossly elevated reach of her senses, Emma could hear the crush of bones under hammers.  Blood flow interrupted with the slash of blades, hearts squeezing futilely against the spill of red upon grass.  It swayed unknowing in the gentle breeze of late spring.

A woman’s hand was crushed, a battle horse lost its rider.  A falcon cawed somewhere in the forest beyond, and thousands of critters were pushed further underground with the shift of her feet when she said –

“I can’t.”

Killian smiled.  He _smiled_ amongst the rage of battle, the loss of life and limb, the tang of fluids of life wafting into his nose.  She could hear them, feel them, _smell_ them, as surely as though she looked out from his eyes.  Emma recalled, when she first saw him, the hollow ringing of his mind against hers, like two sharp blades fallen together, like –

“Emma, _stop_.  You have to help me.  Please.”

“I _can’t_ ,” she answered, though she held the blade tighter in her hands.  “Why should _you_ be the one who dies?  We didn’t start this, _we_ didn’t – ”

“It doesn’t matter.”  

He paused, and took another step, then another, until the sword rested on his shoulders, his hook tangling in her hair, strands spilling wildly over her shoulders.  He pressed his hand against her cheek, his fingers dragging over her jaw.  Though the smile remained, resolute in the face of the fate that awaited him, Emma’s face fell, tears flowing down and off the jut of her chin.

“All of the things I’ve done,” Killian said, hand gripping tighter.  “I succumbed to darkness, and I’ve longed to atone.  This is my chance to be free, as much as it is yours.”

“But – ”

“Swan.”

Emma quieted.  Killian’s feet nudged against hers, and she remembered vividly the last time she’d stood so close, hardly an hour ago, before the women and men on the grounds below had indulged in the pull of battle.  One of the voices of darkness in her mind, furious in the face of its death, conjured up the image of rabid people drinking one another’s blood.

“ _Emma_.”

She looked up, only to find Killian backing away.  His nostrils flared, and she could smell the fear on his breath, could hear it in the shift of his bones.  He spread his arms, and his hook glinted.  Not menacing, but familiar, warming in the soft light.

“Please,” Killian said.  “It will be alright.”

He took a deep breath, and looked her in the eye.  The darkness, in all its multitudes, screamed in her ears, so loud it rose above the battle.  But nothing – in _all_ the realms, living or dead – could crescendo above the noise her heart made when he smiled wetly at her.  Emma gripped the sword tighter, and held it level with his heart.  She pulled back, and with a careful snap of her wrist, a thrust of her shoulder, the sword pushed forth, sinking neatly through his sternum.

The world around her, then, suffused in light, and in silence.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who left comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy this next part. Endless love and gratitude, as ever, due to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this story.

_Six Weeks Earlier_

Emma figured that she was in for one hell of an _I told you so_.

It had hardly been a few hours since she and her crew drew up to Camelot’s lone port, to what August had claimed was a mildly suspicious amount of fanfare.  Dozens of people had awaited them on the docks, draped in ceremonial armors, carrying ceremonial flags, riding lumbering ceremonial horses with elaborate – what she was certain had been _dyed_ – braids.  To her current dismay, she had brushed August off at the time, delighted to be in a new place, a new forest.  She’d grown tired of being at home, where the trees were a bit too familiar, the light a bit too warm.  She’d longed for something a bit further north.  Her father had taken pity on her, offering her an assignment in the very land in which she was now imprisoned.

Hence the _I told you so_.

“I told you so,” August said, from the cell across the narrow hall.  He was irritatingly relaxed, considering their situation, lying upon the smooth, cold ground, a little wooden ship twirling between his fingers.  There beneath the castle, far from the revelry, it was deathly quiet, and so she could very nearly hear the way it smacked against his knuckles.  Over and over again.

She sighed.

“I mean,” she said, shifting so she could cross her legs.  A bit awkward, maybe, in her dress.  A soft, comfortable garment her mother had given her months ago, surreptitiously packing it away in her quarters with a note that claimed, _You’ll thank me later_.

_Hindsight_ , Emma thought, derisively.

“You’re not wrong,” she finished.  “But if you don’t stop doing that, I _will_ set that ship on fire.”

August didn’t look nearly as alarmed as Emma thought he ought to be, but he tucked it away nonetheless, and sat to face her.  Though, he did not look at her, surveying the metal for weaknesses as he had when they were first dragged down to the dungeons.  His brow furrowed, and while Emma was certain he wouldn’t find anything, she let him be, she herself thinking on _why_ they were put in the dungeon to begin with.

_It must have been that tree_ , she thought.

The ball had been quick to grow tiresome, as most balls were.  The fanfare, though overblown, had been splendorous.  There were flowers everywhere, fragrant and beautiful.  The stone floors were polished, the banisters showered with ornate decorations.  The people seemed lighthearted.  The fabrics they wore were rich and bright, and they danced in a sort of order, the music repetitive but made with deep, stringed instruments that carried out onto the lonely castle grounds.

To where, admittedly, she had escaped.

And where she had found the tree, looming large in the shadows.  It had seemed important, walled in by a marvelous courtyard, orderly gardens around the edge.  The tree’s branches draped down low, and Emma had imagined it was once something like a willow.  While she walked around it, tracing her fingers along the rough, twisted bark, the music had softened, a mellow symphony telling her a story that was just out of reach.  The scene was set, but the words…not quite there.  There had been deep gashes in the bark, one in particular straight through to the center.  Emma had wondered – _still_ wondered – if the wounds were responsible for its death.  It was a profoundly sad sight.

_It’s only a tree_ , she thought, in August’s voice, though she did not believe it.

“It was only a tree,” August said, startling her eyes open, “if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s what you said.  But I think you’re wrong.”

August seemed to consider her a moment, watching her with bright eyes.  He shifted closer to her from across the hall, hands curling around the bars.

“Did you _feel_ something?”

Emma snorted.  The man was hardly as surreptitious as he liked to believe.  And besides – as much as her parents, and even Regina, had counseled her to keep her magic something of a secret, surely it was the worst kept secret in all the realms.

“Are you referring to my renowned magical prowess?” she said, loudly.

He threw up in hands.  “Tell the _whole_ damn kingdom you have magic, why don’t you.”

She sighed.  “ _No_ , I didn’t feel anything, but that’s the point.  Something _should_ have been there.”

“The trees here aren’t enchanted, you know, not like they are at home.”

“I _do_ know.  I think this one _was_.  It felt…”  

_Empty_ , Emma thought, but didn’t dare speak it aloud.  It was something no one seemed to understand, the life force given by something born of magic.  Like the forests in Misthaven, many of them reaching down deep with their roots, where enchanted waters long ago seeped into the ground.  They would almost seem to sing to her when she was a child, swaying delightedly in the breeze at her arrival, hanging long and low when she was frightened or sad.  But it was just the opposite with the tree in the courtyard, a very profound sense of loss when she had lain her hand upon its trunk.

Then, of course, as her fingers had warmed with light magic, reaching down into the desiccated sap to glean its story, the guards had taken her, having already cuffed and gagged August.  In hindsight, it was almost funny, the way he had grown stiff and uncooperative in their arms, two of them having to carry them down to where they were now wasting away.

“Wasting away,” August scoffed.  “We’ve hardly been here for half an hour.  I’m sure the king will come down here to demand his ransom before midnight.”

“ _Ransom_ ,” Emma echoed.

She had considered it, of course.  But instinct told her that King Arthur wanted something else.  To steal and ransom a princess of the realm was either an act of a desperate man, or a mad one, not worth whatever coin one could possibly get.

“I doubt that’s what they want,” Emma said.

August tilted his head, pulling at the collar of his shirt, a flush of color on his cheeks.  He rubbed his hands on his trousers, clearly trying to wick away the sweat.

“What _do_ they want, then?” he said, too distracted to notice when she didn’t answer.

Emma bit her lip, and reached up into her hair, pulling out an oddly long bobby, the material ornate and dusted with gold.  Another followed, made of silver.  One of the fancier lock pick sets she’s owned.

“You want to get the hell out of here?”

August paused, having only just managed to wrestle one of his arms out of his vest.  It caught on his belt, his once neatly styled hair falling into his eyes.  His scowled at her, yanking the vest back on, leaping to his feet.

“Gods, _Emma_ , why didn’t you get us out _before_?”

Emma gave him a _look_ , unimpressed.

“There was a guard standing outside the door,” she said.  “He left a couple minutes ago.  My guess is he won’t be back for a few more.  So…time to escape?”

August, in all his petulance, looked like he might say _no_ just to spite her.  But he nodded.

“You’re either the most intelligent or the most _frustrating_ person I’ve ever met.”

Emma shrugged, and reached around for the locks on the bars.  It was nothing special, really, just at an odd angle.  She couldn’t quite see what she was doing, so she pressed her body into the bars.  It became _grossly_ obvious that they were covered in rust, smelling of ruin and copper.  When the lock protested, she shuffled closer still, layers of dust and gravel skidding beneath her feet.  There were windows in the dungeon, but they were high-angled, allowing just a faint bit of moonlight.  There were torches, at least, but those too were faint, burning coolly in the stagnant air.  The whole place was an abomination, even as far as dungeons went.  So it was with a triumphant shout that Emma managed to wrest open the lock.  It fell to the ground with a satisfying thud.

“Yes,” August said, dryly, while she went to work on his.  “It’s always best to _shout_ one’s successes when in a ransom situation.”

“Oh, quiet.”

It didn’t take Emma nearly as long to dislodge the second lock, and it too fell to the ground, tumbling along the uneven floor.  She grabbed a hold of his wrist, and turned to creep out the door.

_Always watch carefully over your shoulder, Emma._

It was something her father had told her again and again, sitting her on his lap, looking at her with his most serious face.

_You’re someone important.  Many people will love you.  Others…will want to take you.  They’ll be clever people, duckling.  You have to be cleverer._

Emma had nodded, of course.  But the one thing she’d never quite mastered was how to be _devious_.  Malfeasance was rife throughout every land she’d ever been to, including her own.  But it was hard to predict, because Emma couldn’t quite get in their heads.  

It was perhaps why, when she flung open the door, she was baffled to find Arthur standing before her, as though he’d been waiting.

“Hello, Emma,” he said.

August froze behind her, and Arthur smiled pleasantly.  His eyes sparkled in the dim, warm light.  His armor gleamed.  There was not a hair out of place on his head.  And there was just something about it that made it all the more frightening when he took a step forward, and drew a blade from the sheath at his side.  Emma backed away, and August stumbled.  She could feel him tense behind her, ready to strike or run, at her command.  She looked at him over her shoulder, shaking her head subtly.

_We’ll die if we do_ , she thought.

“Do you know what this is, Princess?”

_Keep your eyes on theirs_.

That was something else her father had told her.  Though, Emma couldn’t help but to look down at the blade that Arthur held in his hands.  It was curved, delicately, like a living thing.  Blackened vines snaked along down the body, where it met its end abruptly, the edge looking all the more dangerous for having been broken.  The hilt carried an impressive jewel.  All of these things, just like Arthur’s fettered stare, caught the light, and threw it back at her.

“An ugly, broken sword?” Emma said.

The oddly warm smile on Arthur’s face fell into a pale imitation.

“ _This_ ,” he said, his voice trembling, echoing loudly in the small chamber, “is Excalibur.  It carries a magic far too powerful to waste.  Much like you.”

She could feel her stomach drop.  Though she’d known better, she’d _wished_ for it to be a ransom.  Something she could talk, fight, and bleed her way out of.  But there was something dark and insidious about the way the man spoke.  When he’d met her on the docks, he had been all smiles, grateful and welcoming.  For a moment, Emma rather hysterically wished the storm they’d encountered on their way north had swallowed her up.  It was an absurd thought, but there was _something_ pulsing around the blade.  It whispered to her, like a living shadow, and grew louder when Arthur stepped aside, revealing a woman with a dream in her eyes, and magic in her fingertips.

Emma felt fear in that moment.  It was consuming, and her hands began to tremble.  It gave quickly to anger, and she balled her hands to fists, standing as tall as she could.  She could feel August mirroring behind her.

“What do you _want_?” she spat.

“This kingdom is broken,” Arthur answered, cryptically.  “You can help me.”

Arthur gave the blade over to the woman.  In her hands, the whispers in Emma’s mind grew louder, grating against her ears.  She ground her teeth when the woman grew closer, and reached up to cast a spell, to knock both she and Arthur straight to hell where they belonged.

Only…nothing happened.

Arthur snarled, the first truly disagreeable expression Emma had ever seen on his face.

“You didn’t think I’d be so _foolish_ as to bring a magic wielder into my dungeons and not _neutralize_ it.”

The fear gripped harder still, and absurdly, all Emma could think to do was rush the woman before her.  But the moment the thought entered her mind, she could feel her feet anchor to the very spot on which she stood.

“ _August_ ,” she hissed.

“I can’t _move_ ,” he said, sounding just as frightened as she.

“Why – ” Emma began.

_Why are you doing this_ , she thought.  But the words would not come.  The whole world seemed to grow still, reduced to the terrible, ancient magic that thrummed in Excalibur.  The woman held it above her head, and a dark, viscous presence came tumbling out, pouring down into Emma’s chest.  She was drowning on dry land, terror clawing through her lungs.  Her vision swirled, and the last she saw of the dungeon before her was the steady, vacantly amiable expression on Arthur’s face.

* * *

The darkened tendrils of magic, cold and terrifying as they were, shifted suddenly.  All at once, they became soothing and level-minded, and the thick shadows began to dissolve into what must have been some kind of vision.  Where, only moments ago, the woman in Arthur’s dungeon poured darkness into her heart, now she was standing before a great behemoth of a castle.  It was cold, _so_ cold, but something urged her to go inside.  She wanted to look behind her, something itching at the back of her head.  Humming, almost, as though she were hearing a voice shouting at her through water.  But, for all that she was worth, she couldn’t seem to command herself to turn.   

So, she moved ahead.  

Great, craggy stones rose behind the castle.  In fact, it seemed as though it were not built, but coaxed out from the mountain, painted in the same shades of gray and white that blew across the landscape.  The soil was too thin and starved even for the evergreens that grew on her family’s mountains.  There was nothing but brush, marshes down in a valley that lay behind the castle, all blanketed with snow.  It blew and it blew, swirling at the base of a wooden door.

“Come in,” a voice whispered through the wind.

It rankled, being told what to do, but Emma’s curiosity burned, down deep in her belly.  So, she obeyed.  The wood was wet and swollen beneath her fingertips.  She was afraid, _so_ afraid.  Her fingers trembled.  She longed to wake up, but _something_ called to her, both tempting and repulsive.  She could not turn back, but neither could she force herself to stay still.

With nothing else to do, she pushed open the door.

“Hello.”

It was the figure before her that spoke, in many voices.  Its back was turned to her.  It was draped in a terrible darkness, though it emitted a faint light.  It was warm, inviting, terrifying, all sorts of things that jarred together.  There was something important there, she knew, but she couldn’t tell _what_.  It was something she needed to remember, she _had_ to remember.  She wanted to ask – _Who are you?_ – but the words didn’t come.  Emma felt her mind slipping, even as the figure turned, casting shards of garish color along the inner walls.

“Hello,” it said again.

And for a moment, Emma was certain she’d see its face.  But, with a flash of bright, oddly familiar eyes, she was wrenched elsewhere.

* * *

_Hello._

Emma didn’t wake, so much as she startled out of some state of sub-awareness.  She was standing in a cavern, ignorant as to how she had gotten there.  Light fell in dull shafts from somewhere above, the voice from the vision – if that’s what it had been – echoing along the blackened walls.  Unlike the castle from just moments before, the strange cavern was overwarm, growing hotter by the second.  When she looked down, she hardly recognized her dress, as torn and tattered as it was.  It looked as though it had been tossed in a fire.

_My mother is going to be so angry_ , she thought, rather hysterically, pulling at the drape that fell over her shoulder.  It itched, terribly, and though she longed to pull it off, it almost seemed to be _fused_ to her skin.  Though, curiously, no pain followed her fingers, wherever they prodded.

“What the _hell_ is going on?”

Her voice, which by all rights should have echoed in the cavern, fell flat.  Emma meant to turn, but her feet were rooted to the ground.  The feeling of helplessness was acute and she longed suddenly, violently, for her father.  The way he held her, engulfed her in his arms, his hands reaching up to stroke at her hair.  She’d often be apart from her parents for months at a time, and though pangs of homesickness had always been overridden by the thrill of adventure, she often thought of them in the long nights at sea.  Of the stories her father would tell, how her mother would correct him.  The way they had tucked her in when she was young, tighter and tighter until she’d laugh.  The gentle kisses to the tip of her nose, the way –

_The way they were afraid of your magic when you were a child._

_The way they send you as far from the kingdom as they possibly can._

_Oh, how frightened they must be of you._

_Will they even mourn you when you don’t return?_

Emma reached up, and threw her hands over her ears.  Where one voice ended, another began.  It was a chorus of elemental sounds and painful words, like iron tumbling over gravel, smooth like cool water and rough like freshly hewn wood.  Antithetical noises overwhelming her, the terrible images of the frozen queen who had once tried to take her from her parents, of the friends and family she’d had and lost through the vagaries of war, all of it swirling, _swirling_ like a dark, liquid vortex.

_You’re going to love this next part._

Beneath the chorus, a persistent hiss arose, growing louder and louder, until out of the shadows it appeared, a darkness blacker than pitch, and of the same consistency, spilling over and over itself before latching onto her ankles.

She screamed.  Many others screamed along with her.  The darkness surrounding her pried her flesh open, and poured itself into her veins.  The screaming grew louder, the pain stronger, clawing through as though trying to burrow down where she couldn’t reach, down where she could never hope to remove it.

Until, like the eye of the storms she often found at sea, it all fell silent.

* * *

_It’s a vault_ , Emma realized, just as she began to wrench herself free of its locks.  Whatever horrible darkness had torn her apart moments before screeched through her veins, coalesced at her fingertips, and sloshed towards the ground, where it ran down along an ornate doorway in the forest floor.  Wherever the darkness touched life, it shriveled and blackened.

This was the first thing she feared, the sight of that living darkness.  And where before, fear always jittered subtly down her spine, now it was an inferno, sparking at the origin, and conjuring any number of unbearably terrifying scenarios.

The noise was second.  It was unbearable.  The world seemed to _scream_ at her.  Insects buzzed through the air, the breeze rustled loudly through the forest canopy, dry tree limbs shattered underfoot of creatures whose every breath rattled through fragile bones and carapaces.

The unknown was third.  She did not know what had happened to her, and she did not know where she was.  Concern flared instantly to terror, then anger.

And…curiosity?

_That would be me._

As surely and steadily as the noise had poured in, it was silenced at the sound of a voice, deep and accented.  A heavy, tattered hood hung over her eyes.  She pushed it back, and found the origin standing before her, blanketed in leather and darkness, a neutral expression on his face.  Emma took a step forward, uncertain and stumbling.  The man’s face morphed instantly, neutrality to suspicion, suspicion to outright hostile distrust.

_Who are you?_ a voice demanded.

_What do you want?_

_How did you bind yourself?_

_Are there others?_

Emma shook her head, reaching up to dig behind her ears, at the base of her skull.  She shut her eyes, squeezing them tight against the onslaught of questions, many of them unfinished before the next one came.

“Will you shut _up_?” she said.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Well, I can _hear_ you.”

Emma opened her eyes, one at a time, voices still echoing thickly in her mind.  The man sighed, leaned back on his heels, and just as surely as the noises of the forests were silenced, the voices died away as well.  Only then did she get a good look at him.

It was as though he were painted with oils, slick and shimmering.  The coat he wore was crafted in leather.  It _reeked_ of magic, and when she shifted from one foot to the other, Emma could see the faded runes printed out over the sleeves and up along the lapels.  They were enchantments, she realized, most of which were too ancient to understand.  He wore a sword on one hip and a dagger on the other, only just barely visible when he stepped forward, looking at her the way she imagined she was looking at him.  He took another step yet, and the moonlight pouring down through the trees glinted off the hook that took the place of his left hand.

A voice much like his, shouted desperately in her mind, somewhere she couldn’t quite reach, _Milah!_

Emma hissed, a brief, searing pain in her wrist before it shuttered away, hidden.

“Ah,” he said, the intensity burning in his eyes at odds with the casual way he circled her.  “Princess Emma.  You don’t know what’s happened to you, do you?”

Emma turned along with him, suddenly caught in a dance.  He surely knew the steps, she could see it in the way he looked at her, something ancient and powerful oozing from his voice when he spoke, the way that he moved.

“How do you know my name?” she said.

“You’re something of an open book.”

She scowled, stepping closer.  “Yeah, because you’re digging around in my head.”

He stilled, cold fury twisting the expression on his face.  “Aye, and nothing you haven’t done to _me_.”

For all her composure, all the years she ever spent learning how to be _diplomatic_ , and other useless things, Emma growled, and reached down where her magic roiled, down deep in her belly.  Only, when she did, it churned violently, grating laughter echoing in her ears before she disappeared where she stood, reappearing just before him in a cloud of gray, and taking hold of the chain around his neck.

“Who,” she said, breathing in harshly through her nose, “ _are_ you?”

Emma expected him to snarl back at her.  And yet, where his anger had burned hot and bright just moments ago, it grew cool, the unwelcome rush of heat from his mind to hers fading away.

“I am the Dark One,” he said, simply.  “And now so, it seems, are you.”

Emma could feel her face fall, and curiously, so did his, before he wrested it under control.

“ _What_?” she said

“You are bound to the same darkness I am, love.”  He hesitated, looking down at her hand, where it curled over his necklace.  A rush of discomfort flushed through her skin, and Emma let him go, though she did not step back.

“How did this happen?” he said.

“Why don’t you tell _me_?”

“I didn’t go _rooting_ in your head on purpose, darling.  The darkness binds us, that’s clear enough.  Now _tell_ me.”

There was something imperious about the way that he spoke.  Her nostrils flared, and she refused silently.

“ _Please_ ,” he said, quietly, _gently_ even.  Emma’s head spun.  He was calming, enraging, angry and mellow.  She wondered if that was his natural state, or if they were clashing together, two minds at war underneath the shadow of darkness.

“What’s your name?” Emma said, in lieu of answering him.  

His eyes widened just a bit, as though he had expected anything but that.

“Killian,” he answered, faltering over the sound of his own name, like he’d forgotten what it was.  “Killian Jones.”

“Well, _Killian_ ,” she said, and she too faltered when again he seemed unsure, his eyes darkening even under the cover of night.  The guarded expression slipped from his face, and for a moment –  even clothed as he was in magic and danger, weapons dangling from his side and likely tucked down in his boots, judging by their give when he moved – he managed to look boyish.  A little lost.

“It was King Arthur,” she said, quietly.  “I came here to negotiate a trade.  He imprisoned me, and then he…”

Emma thought on the blade he’d held just beneath her nose, the eerie sensation of the darkness slithering out along her skin rising again, unbidden.

“Excalibur,” she said.  “He took Excalibur, and he did something with it.  I’m not sure what.  One moment I was there, and there was this…”  She wrinkled her nose, feeling suddenly and inexplicably cold.  “…wet stuff.  Then I had a vision?  Or something.  Now I’m here.”

Killian quirked a brow, and where he looked boyish before, now he looked a bit roguish.  It was interesting to her how many faces the man could wear, clearly trying to guard himself, clearly _failing_.

“What an elegant tale,” he said, dryly.  “Tell me, love.  This blade...”

He hesitated, briefly, before reaching underneath his jacket, and drawing out his dagger.  Emma knew she should probably at least have enough common sense to be wary.  But she remained where she stood, watching as he turned the blade in the silvery light, his name written in dark, swooping letters.  A familiar pattern weaved down along the curved edges, tapering to a point.

“Did it happen to look anything like this?”

Emma swallowed, and looked up into his eyes.  They bored into her, the weight of his stare knocking against her skull.  She could only nod, caught in a rush of sensation, from both without and within.  He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short when something grabbed at her innards and tugged, _hard_.  She heard a command echo through her mind –

_Dark One, appear._

– and the will to obey was stronger than the pull of the man before her.  Her vision darkened, and suddenly, she was not there anymore.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who left comments and kudos! Endless love and gratitude, as ever, due to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this story. Warnings for this chapter: violence, minor character death

_Wait._

Killian Jones’s voice echoed as she disappeared, reappearing moments later before Arthur, where he waited, sitting patiently in a dark room, at a grand table set among pillars of stone.  He wore the same vapidly pleasant expression on his face, sparing her only a glance before he rose to his feet.  Excalibur was sheathed at his side, the hilt swinging gently as he walked, his hand pressed to the walls of his castle.  Emma could hear the grit of the stone dragging beneath his fingertips.  Where Killian had instilled calm, a pervasive sort of silence that eased like water between her ears, everything about Arthur grated.

“This is a marvelous place, isn’t it?” he said, conversationally.

Emma couldn’t help but agree.  The walls were rough, but the floors were polished and gleaming, a dark soapstone oiled to perfection.  The table before her was, famously, round, with high-backed chairs placed at regular intervals.  Great and elegant tapestries tumbled from the ceiling, bearing crests and monsters and terrible battles, sewn in jarringly bright threads.

 _Yes,_ Emma thought, _it is marvelous._

 _Despite its inhabitants,_ a voice said.  It sounded…well, it sounded like _Killian_.  It was fleeting and soft, a brief touch of the same silence that had settled at the vault.  Like everything that day, it was quick to disappear.

“Despite its inhabitants,” Emma answered, because she was too angry to think of anything besides _fuck you_ , and that was hardly adequate to express the severity of the wounds she would have liked to inflict upon the man, emotional or otherwise.

“Ah yes,” Arthurs said.  “I can’t imagine you’re all too happy about this arrangement.  Please, do let me explain.”

Emma tried to shift where she stood, agitation tingling down in the soles of her feet.  But she could not seem to _move_.  Frustration welled up in her belly.

She huffed.  “It doesn’t seem like I have a choice.”

Arthur frowned, and turned to face her, his face both striking and terrible in the slant of the moonlight.  His nostrils flared, and he took a deep breath.  He approached her, and like before, in the dungeons, fear rose like bile in her throat.  But it was sharper now, like a rebellion in her soul, aided by the dark power within, the struggle so mighty that she felt her bones might have shifted, crumbling beneath the weight of her fury.  Many voices whispered in her mind, hissing louder and louder as he approached.  One rose above the rest –

_Just hold on._

“My kingdom is broken,” Arthur said, nearly in arm’s reach now, his hand resting comfortably on Excalibur’s pommel.

“You’ve _said_ that,” Emma said, through her teeth.

“You can’t possibly understand the burden, Princess.  My kingdom, once great, is falling apart.  We’ve little else to offer but the trees in our forest.  Our waters are devoid of life.  My people are hungry, my ports are crumbling.  I _have_ to do something.”

“I’d like to remind you that that’s why I’m here, _Arthur_.”  She spat his name, sans title, and for a satisfying moment, he looked taken aback, before he steadied on his feet, the same bland look on his face.  “To establish a trade, _greatly_ biased in your favor.”

“Do you think we have the _time_ to wait for your trickling generosity to restore our kingdom?  You, Princess, have immeasurable power – even more so now that I have bound you to the darkness – and yet you use it for little more than triflings, trying and failing to keep it secret.  No, I don’t intend to let this opportunity to go to waste.”

Emma scoffed, and he began to circle her.  There was not much that was physically threatening about him, the way he walked or talked or stood.  He did not seem to intend to do her any harm.  He stepped forward, calm and sure, a staunch belief that what he was doing was _right_.  Emma knew when people were lying, could almost _taste_ their deceit.  But there was nothing unclear or dishonest about this.  Arthur was afraid for his people.  He was going to _use_ her to fix it.

“You’ll start a war,” Emma said, looking at him over her shoulder.  Again, he came to rest in a shard of light, as if it could possibly provide any warmth.  There was something sad about him, and something evil.  It was curious, she thought, to watch the two coexist.

“I don’t think so,” Arthur said, shaking his head, turning back to pace before her.  “There’s nothing I can tell you to do that you can deny.  As far as your kingdom is aware, you’ll have been positively _crushed_ by your compassion for my people.  You’ll stay as long as it takes to repair what’s been broken.  In return, you can keep this power, along with the secret.”

Emma laughed, hysterically.  The voices in her head joined in, and she stopped, a chill racing down her spine at the unnatural sound.

“It might be hard to hide that I’m the _Dark One_.”

Arthur stopped, and turned to face her.  His expression – leaping quickly from blandness to fury, and back again – became genuinely curious, a little suspicious.

“How could you _possibly_ know what you are?”

Emma blanched.   _The man in the woods told me._  Probably not the best answer.

“Voices,” she said.  She called on everything her father ever taught her about lying, and everything her mother ever _showed_ her about lying simply by being terrible at it.  “The magic…speaks.”

Arthur hummed.  “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.  You are, after all…”  His jaw ticked, irritation flaring before the _same_ awful expression wrote itself back out upon his face.  “…painfully intelligent.  You’ll be free to do as you like.  I’ll keep this, of course – ”  He reached down, patting at the sword.  “ – but I shan’t use it to control you, once my people are happy.”

The man seemed resolute.  Also _clearly_ unaware of the fact that he had given away the purpose of the weapon at his side.

 _He can pull your strings with that like a puppet, dearie,_ one of the voices was helpful enough to point out.

 _It would be prudent to reacquire the sword,_ another offered.

_Kill the man in the process.  Surely his underlings are better suited to lead._

Emma closed her eyes.

 _Shut_ up _,_ she thought.   _Shut up, shut up._

_Talkative, aren’t they, darling?_

She shook her head, and looked up.  The tapestry directly above her was even brighter than the rest, a meadow of pinks and blues.  A patch of young and delicate flowers waved in an imagined wind.  Emma thought of her mother, of her father, of her brother, all completely unaware of what was transpiring.  It certainly was not out of character for her to stay awhile.  She had once extended her stay in a desert land by several months, another in a mountain steppe by two.  Beautiful places, broken places, places where the people were particularly happy, or particularly downtrodden.  They called to her, and she could never resist.  As _painfully_ _intelligent_ as she might have been, either Arthur or his advisers were no fools either.  Dread and defeat began to thicken in her throat.  Her hands began to tremble.

“Why didn’t you just ask?” Emma said.  And if she sounded desperate, then so be it.  “ _Why?_  I was here to help you.”

Arthur merely tilted his head.  “The sort of power I’ve asked for, no one is ever willing to give.  This is the faster road, and I will take it.”

The way he said it…she thought perhaps he’d once tried to be patient, but could never quite overcome his boyishness, despite his age.  He almost seemed to regret what he felt he must do, but Emma couldn’t find it within herself to count that in his favor.  Arthur had made his intentions clear, and all that remained was for Emma to find a way out of it.  A familiar determination pulled tight at the muscles of her back.  A less familiar rage pushed on her jaw, and were she not imbued with such power, she imagined it would crack beneath the force.

“Then take it,” Emma said, mustering up every bit of imperiousness she possibly could.  Arthur nodded, clearly secure in the knowledge that he had won.

 _His arrogance will be the death of him_ , she thought, in a voice not altogether her own.

 _At our hands_ , came the reply.

“We’ll announce your intent to stay tonight, at the ball,” Arthur said.  He paused, then, and looked her up and down.  Only then did Emma feel the itch of the rags against her skin, hanging down past her hands.  The robe sagged in all the wrong places, and smelled faintly of newly tanned hide.

“You’ll have to change, of course,” he said.  Absurdly, the man turned on his heel, a flush on his cheeks, as if watching her conjure suitable clothing would somehow be _worse_ than everything he’d done thus far.  “Do what you must.”

Emma rolled her eyes.  The man somehow managed to be both devious and incompetent.  He was an insidious embarrassment, the worst kind.  She thought on that as she waved her hand, a facsimile of the dress her mother had given her appearing in place of her robe.  The fabric was even richer than before, the red a luxurious shade, yet not smelling faintly of the rancid dye from which the color was usually acquired.  It was a small comfort, at least, that she’d one day be able to return it to her mother.

 _Mother_ , she thought, allowing herself a moment of longing.

_Just hold on a moment._

The same warm, deep voice whispered comfort, the incredible ambient noise once again receding to the background, where it was manageable.  In the wake of the silence, Emma watched Arthur shift from one foot to the other.  She wondered…

The sword at his side stirred momentarily, but a vicious clamp snapped down on her magic.  It felt like a crushing boulder.  Emma breathed sharply, and the man turned, his nostrils flaring.

“You must think me a fool,” Arthur said.  “I’m sure you’ll change your mind.  Now, come with me.”

Emma gritted her teeth as she followed him down the corridors.  The power began to churn beneath her skin, formidable and oddly sentient.  Voices whispered at her, hissing like caged animals.  She thought briefly on the man she met at the vault – _Killian_ – just as dark and sinister as she feared she was already becoming.  She thought of the way his mind had brushed against hers, prodding and retreating.  His voice seemed to carry with her there in the castle, and it was unknown to her whether or not it was real.  Whether _any_ of it was real.  Emma dared to hope that it was all a horrific nightmare.

“I’ll expect you to be cordial to my guests,” Arthur said, turning down along a shadowed corridor.  The windows along the wall began to open wider.  Vines spilled in through the courtyard alongside the moonlight, delicate flower buds washed out in blue.  A sudden homesickness unlike she had ever felt before curdled in her stomach.  The presence in her mind seemed to feed on it, twisting the image of home into an image of battle, one kingdom against another, blood spilt by her own hands washing down towards the sea.

“You’ll of course have to dispose of those with whom you arrived,” Arthur said.  “It will be easy enough to explain away, I’m sure.  This is a tragic place.”  He turned and looked at her then, a sickening mime of regret pinching his face.  “It’s the only way.”

If the new power that lingered beside her light was angry before, it became murderous in an instant.  Terrible, violent images were painted in her mind, the beast within reaching out to smear the scene out where only she could see.  Arthur, always near death, but never quite given the mercy to reach it.  His kingdom, spitefully burnt to the ground.  As much as it seemed to appease the growing restlessness down in the palms of her hands, the images frightened her.  Emma bit at the inside of her lips, willing them to leave her.

“You’re a monster,” Emma said, quietly.

Arthur lifted his head, looking down at her.  “No, Princess.  I believe _you_ are the monster now.”

He turned, and she followed.

As much as the presence inside scoffed, Emma couldn’t help but think that he was right.

* * *

The celebration was still at its height when Emma arrived, just a few steps behind Arthur.  She longed to lose herself in the crowd, but the invisible manacles still held her fast at his side.  Even the expression on her face felt as though it did not quite belong to her.  For some time, Arthur merely stood near the throne, where it sat upon the dais.  For a broken kingdom, Emma thought, its courts were wrapped in splendor.  As the evening had given way to night, many more candles had been lit, casting everyone and everything in a warm glow.

The worst part, Emma thought, was that she couldn’t help but feel affection for the people before her.  None of them seemed to radiate with the same sort of false congeniality that infected their king.  They seemed hopeful, proud of what they had managed to build, despite their troubles.  Had it all gone differently, Emma might have been tempted to stay a while.  There was a subtle and beautiful magic in the kingdom, of a kind with which she was not familiar.

Camelot was bathed in the unknown.  Emma loved the unknown.

“Will you have me do it here?” she said, softly, unable to raise her voice above a whisper.  “Kill my friends?  My family?”

Arthur’s jaw twitched.  “Surely not.  You’re meant to be a beacon of hope.”

“ _False_ hope.”

“Hardly false, when the result is the same.  No one will ever be the wiser.”

“Especially not _you_.”  Emma could feel a snarl building in her throat.  But it could not escape. “You’re so…”  She faltered a moment.

 _Grossly vaunting?_ the same, warm voice suggested, sounding louder now.   _Disturbingly brainless?_

“Illegitimate,” she said.  “And my father was a shepherd before he became king.”

 _That_ , of all things, was what seemed to rattle Arthur.  He fidgeted where he stood, and struggled with the anger she could _feel_ rolling from his shoulders.

“ _Now_ ,” he said.  It clearly cost him a great deal to appear outwardly friendly as he grasped her arm, his hand digging into her flesh.  The voices within honed in on the unwelcome touch, and began begging for vengeance.

 _Take the hand,_ they suggested.

“People of Camelot,” Arthur said, waiting for the people to quiet.  The music halted discordantly, and they began to murmur.  “I have excellent news.”

The murmur rose, and Emma felt defeat tugging at her heart.  She _refused_ to give in, and called out to the power that lived inside.  Surely it had tricks up its sleeves.  She reached down deep for resolve, for _something_ to free her.  Her fingers twitched under the compulsion to remain still and pliant.  She gritted her teeth, a moment of triumph when she scowled, and opened her mouth to denounce Arthur.

“ _Stop_ ,” she said, before he could continue.  He turned to look at her, his eyes bright, satisfyingly taken aback.  He reached for the hilt of Excalibur, and the vitriol remained trapped behind her teeth.

Arthur was sure to have an excuse for her behavior.  But he could hardly speak before the sound of shattering glass, echoing just beyond the door, interrupted him.

 _Here I am_ , the warm voice said.

A hush settled over the room.  It was not quick, or violent, not quite like the presence she felt encroaching upon the castle grounds.  The candles – hundreds of them, thousands maybe, set all along the halls in sconces and candlesticks and candelabras made of the most precious of metals and stone – they began to flicker.  Dying, dimming the room, and leaving behind a blue glow from the stained glass that was set high in the walls.  The moon was low, the light slanted, and if that weren’t quite eerie enough, it was certainly aided by the pressure building in her ears, something that made the room appear to breathe.

And if that was true, Emma thought, if the room did breathe, it held its breath, expelling it the moment the grand and ornate doors at the end of the hall swung open.  They creaked with the motion, arcing slowly outward.  Though there was surely light behind the man that entered, he seemed to carry shadows with him, and they spilled into the room as he took first one step, then another.

“Killian,” she said.  Even from the far side of the room, Emma could see his eyes jump to hers, a warning in the way blue flashed to gray, to black, then back again.

“I was quite disappointed not to have been given an invitation,” he said.

Quite suddenly, it must have become obvious to the guard – as stunned as the rest of the people – that their visitor meant them harm, for they took the chance to rush him.  Emma could see it in her mind before it happened.  He curled his fingers, and their heads twisted, the unnatural angle surely leaving them for dead.  They fell upon the lacquered floors in a heap, their armor clanging loudly.  Someone in the crowd screamed, followed by another.  Killian Jones, whoever the man was, seemed to flow like water, like rivers in the cold of winter, sluggish and smooth.  The sounds of screams clearly disturbed him.  He took a step, landing heavy on his right foot, before yet another motion from his hand – quick and angry this time – put the attendees in what Emma hoped was some kind of trance, or sleeping spell.  They too fell to the ground.

He smiled.

“Who are you?” Arthur said.  His voice was quiet, trembling.

It was almost comical, really, how quickly the smile dropped from Killian’s face, turning from playful derision to a searing hatred.  The man clearly had a sharp mind, she could feel it whirring against her own.  He looked around the room, at the blade in Arthur’s hand, eyes landing sharply on the treacherous king, before alighting on her, less anger and more calculation.  They flashed when he took in the change of her clothes, tying it to the situation at large.  His voice, when he spoke, was soft and sonorous, clashing with dark intent.

“Killian Jones,” he said, inclining his head, as though that was the moment where the king was meant to bow.  “I hear you’ve been playing with things you shouldn’t, your majesty.”

Arthur seemed to gather himself, then, and held Excalibur aloft, looking briefly to Emma before he opened his mouth.  She hated the way she could hear his lungs expand, the crackle of bones and sinew.  Emma had only just enough time to begin to fear the possibilities – what he would command her to do – before his stance shifted unnaturally.  Air caught in the man’s throat, and his face paled when, with a swirl of deep, red magic, Killian was in one place one moment, and then another the next.  His ringed fingers curled around Arthur’s neck, squeezing until he began to turn red, eyes wide and frightened.

“Hold,” Killian said, speaking through clenched teeth, “your… _tongue_.”

The terrible expression on his face slackened, replaced with some measure of curiosity.

“For what purpose have you bound this woman?” Killian said.  “And _where_ did you find this sword?”

Arthur refused to answer, and his bones began to give way, Excalibur clattering to the ground.  Harsh noises escaped his throat, the sounds of a dying man.

“She belongs to _me_ now,” Arthur said, petulant and crass.

Killian froze, his fingers loosening.  Arthur fell to the ground, trying desperately to reach for Excalibur.  Killian trapped the blade underneath his foot.  Pure, unmitigated rage wafted into the room, the floor trembling where they stood.

“She belongs to _no one_ ,” he snarled.  “This sword, however…”  He reached out, and the blade snapped up into the palm of his hand.  “…I’ve been gone for quite some time, highness, but bully for you, I’ve come back to take what’s mine.”

It was unceremonious, the way Killian twisted his fingers, death coming quickly to whatever remained of King Arthur, his bones wrenching free of their natural place.  And whether it was because of the dark presence that lived within her, terribly pleased to have taken a wretched life, or because of the things he’d done, Emma couldn’t bring herself to condemn it.  Freedom followed quickly on the heels of his death, and she slumped, rubbing away the tension in her shoulders.  She watched the man before her as she did so.

Killian – the Dark One, he had called himself – was clearly unperturbed by the body at his feet, weighing the blade in his hand a moment before holding it out, seemingly indifferent as to whether or not she chose to take it.

Emma eyed him suspiciously.  “I thought you said it was _yours_.”

Something sparked in the man’s eyes, something real, and for the first time since she’d met him, he appeared interested, genuinely curious… _human_.

“Well, darling, ‘take back what belongs to this woman here’ doesn’t have quite the same dramatic ring as ‘take back what’s _mine_ ’.  I figured you wouldn’t mind, as long as you got what you wanted.”

He still held out the sword, but Emma didn’t take it, crossing her arms over her chest.  “How do I know that I can trust you?”

Interest flared into irritation.  That, too, Emma could feel.  It was a chilly sensation, though not unpleasant.  Just strange.

“Bloody hell, woman,” he snarled, giving the hilt of the blade a shake.  “Would you prefer I auction it off to the highest bidder?  Keep it for myself?  You’re a _Dark One_ now, this weapon is all that stands between you and servitude.”

Emma looked up at him, curious.  She found herself wanting to know him.

 _To own him,_ the darkness suggested.

Killian frowned, and quirked a brow.  “Those voices are terribly pleasant, aren’t they?”

She sighed, and closed her eyes a moment.  “Is there a way to turn them off?”

He laughed.   _Laughed._  It was a terrible juxtaposition.  There were several dead among them, including the king at their feet.  Killian’s magic still held fast to what remained of the living.  He did not seem to regret it, eager to move along.  There was a light in his eyes when he glanced down at Arthur, at the decorated scabbard on the man’s belt.  Killian hesitated before conjuring one anew, this one sturdier, though plain.  It was absurd, really, the way he scratched beneath his ear with his hook, like he was embarrassed.  He dropped the gift into her hands, and cleared his throat.

“We’d best go,” he said.  “The spell holding these people in place will only last for so long.”

“Sorry, _we_?”

His jaw clenched, a muscle near his ear twitching furiously.  “I’d rather not part ways before we’ve had a discussion.”

She huffed.  “About what?”

“Bloody hell, but you’re _insufferable_.  Lead wherever you like.  I promise I have no ill intentions here.  I’m merely concerned.”

 _That’s not what I’m worried about_ , Emma thought.

 _Then what_ are _you worried about?_

“Stay _out_ of my head,” she said, through her teeth.

“ _Deal_.  Now _go_.”

Emma had never taken kindly to commands.  But the man seemed more desperate than forceful.  As much bravado as he wore, beneath the caustic remarks, she could feel a touch of fear, of discomfort.  And despite her demand that he leave her mind be, she couldn’t seem to do the same for him.  Not for want of stealing away his privacy, but for the fact that, in some ways, they were less than two, but more than one.  When she thought, sometimes it was in a faintly accented voice.  When she looked up at him, she felt as though, somehow, she was looking back at herself.

“Alright,” she conceded, and she led them down the same corridor from whence she came.

* * *

Emma nearly sobbed with relief when she found August where last she saw him, pacing back and forth in his cell.

“Emma!” he said, reaching through the bars to grasp at her shoulders.  “Oh gods, I was so afraid.  What the hell did he _do_ to you?”

“Oh nothing,” Killian said, appearing at her side in a quiet puff of magic.  August jumped, just shy of knocking his head against the bars.  She looked sharply at Killian, but he only shrugged, reaching out to yank at the lock.  It crumbled in his hand, dust drifting away in the tepid air.  

“Just filled her to brimming with immortal darkness,” he finished.

“Is that how you introduce yourself to _everyone_?” Emma said.  “Scare the shit out of them?”

“Well forgive me for services rendered.”  Killian leaned against the bars with irritating nonchalance.  “I’m a bit out of practice with the human sort.”

Emma rolled her eyes, and pushed open the cell door.  August did not seem too eager to step out.

“Who _is_ this guy?” he said, quietly, as though Killian couldn’t hear them.

“I’ll explain when we return to the ship.”

“But – ”

“August, we need to go.   _Now_.”

August seemed reluctant, looking at Killian, then back at her.  Surely he could feel the darkness, or at least sense that something was off.  Emma could feel it welling up in her pores, begging to spill over.  Now free of control, it longed for blood, not nearly sated by Arthur’s unceremonious death.  She wondered briefly if it would _ever_ be sated.  

 _Immortal_ , Killian had said.

“Okay,” August agreed, at length.  “Lead the way.”

Emma wasn’t quite sure where to start, only sure that they needed to head _away_ from both the dungeon and the ballroom.  When she closed her eyes, she could hear a great commotion, echoing down the halls.  She managed to find her way back to the great room in which Arthur had first summoned her.  There appeared to be no other way out.  She felt frustrated.  The darkness fed upon it, rising in her chest, and pooling in her fingertips.  She was just on the edge of making what she _knew_ was a terrible decision – imagining the walls of the castle tumbling to the ground with a flick of her wrist – when Killian stepped behind one of the pillars, pressing his palm flat against the wall.  The stone blocks trembled, and rearranged themselves into an ornate archway that led to yet another hallway.  He listened a moment, ears twitching, before looking back at her, presenting the way out with a flourish.

“No need for such drastic measures, love,” he said, undoubtedly referring to the image she’d summoned, the castle gradually turning to dust in her mind.  “A door will suffice.”

“Good thing it’s architecturally _fancy_ ,” she grumbled.  “I’m guessing you couldn’t walk through it otherwise.”

“Desperate times aren’t an excuse for poor attention to detail.”

Emma felt like she could punch the man in the face.   _Something_ to wipe away his smug expression.

“Well, _I’m_ leaving,” August said, stepping around them, with a pointed look in Emma’s direction.  A flush heated her face.

“After you,” Killian said, growing quiet as they approached the outer wall.  After a few wrong turns, they found a heavy, wooden door that opened to the edge of the grounds.  Luckily enough, Emma could hear the sea, the heavy groan of ships in the port.  It was an easy journey from there, keeping to the edge of the wood, quiet as she listened to the sounds of hooves beating against the ground, of voices rising along the turn of midnight.  Emma thought, not for the first time, that this was by far the biggest disaster she’d ever left behind.  

She wondered if her parents would be more angry, or relieved.

“Princess,” a woman called to her from deeper within the wood as they neared the port.  Emma knew the ship was just around the bend, awaiting a quick escape.  Unsurprisingly, the commotion grew louder as they approached, and they kept tighter under the shadows as they went.

“Princess,” she called again.  “Over here.”

 _It’s Jo_ , Emma realized, with some measure of relief.  The woman materialized from out of the brush.  As small as she was, her head just level with Emma’s chin, and as agile as her months at sea had made her, she slipped easily from shadow to shadow.  She nodded at August, and gave Killian an appraising look.

“Is this your husband?” Jo said, in her own deadpan sort of way.  She had a habit, Emma had noticed over the past year, of somehow managing to both speak in circles, _and_ hit the point right on the nose.

Emma huffed, indignantly.  “ _What_?  No.  You think I went and got married sometime in the _eight_ hours since I saw you last?”

Jo ignored the question, as was _also_ her habit.  “You better marry him before I do.”

Killian smiled.

“Killian Jones,” he said, introducing himself with what was quickly becoming a familiar flourish.

“ _No_ ,” Emma said, frowning up at him.  “ _You_ , stop it.  And _you_ – ”  She pointed at Jo, who, as ever, appeared wide-eyed and innocent.  “ – focus.  What’s going on?”

Jo sobered, and pointed over Emma’s shoulder, where a contingent of guards sat astride horses, a man at their head shouting orders.

“They’re after you,” Jo said.  “They say you killed the king.”

August inhaled, sharply.  “ _Emma._ ”

“I _didn’t_ do it,” she said.

“Then what _did_ happen?”

Killian – who, despite all his affected carelessness, looked surprised, alarmed even – stepped forward.  Menace crept onto his face, and the sounds of the forest around them seemed to quiet.

“It was _me_ ,” he said.  “Have you heard tell of the Dark One?”

“The dark _what_?” Jo said.

“Vanquished _centuries_ ago,” August said.  “Ancient history, _myth_ even.”

“And yet here I am.  A walking, talking, ancient myth.  The darkness is real.  I’ve lived with it for _many_ years.  This so-called _King Arthur_ bound your Princess to the darkness.  Likely so that he could control you?”

Killian paused, then, looking to her for confirmation.

“Yes,” Emma answered.  “He wanted my, uh – ”  She clamped down on the word _magic_.  “ – he must have wanted something.  Said I could him help fix the kingdom.”

August frowned.  “If he wanted your help, why fill you with darkness?  Why not just ask?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Either way,” Killian said, “she had nothing to do with it.   _I_ killed the king.  I alone.”

Jo shifted on her feet, clearly agitated, her hands clutching at her hips.

“Well first,” Jo said, reaching out to poke Killian in the chest.  For just a spare moment, he seemed bewildered.  “Good job.  What a creepy guy.  Second, none of that really matters.  They say Emma killed the king.  For all the people of Camelot know, you two were working together.  We’re just about guaranteed some kind of a war here.”

August sighed.  “Thanks for the upbeat attitude, _Josephine_.”

Killian deliberated.  Though she’d successfully managed to ignore him on the trek through the woods, Emma could once again feel his mind against hers.  It was like a machine, she realized.  Like a mill, only infinitely more complex, the pieces fitting together and spinning with remarkable speed and clarity.

“No,” he said, “she’s right.  It doesn’t matter.  Their king is dead, and your Princess and I are the cause, as far as they’re aware.  Royal protocol would demand she be arrested, and tried in the courts of Camelot, or else your kingdom risks a skirmish, at the very least.”

A terrible hush settled when he finished speaking.  Even Jo, as steady and benevolent a person as Emma had ever had the pleasure of working with, appeared frightened.  August reached up, chewing on his knuckle.  Emma closed her eyes, and not for the first time that day, imagined what it would feel like if she never saw her family again.

“Okay,” Emma said, feeling unsteady on her feet.  “Okay.  We can deal with this…”

Emma was certain that she could wrest control of her ship from Camelot, despite their soldiers’ presence at the docks.  She was _also_ certain that many people on both sides would die in the process.  If she went home, Misthaven would be obligated to return her to Camelot.  If she stayed, she’d have to fight to protect herself.  Images flooded her mind again, unbidden.  Of her against an army, inimitable power crackling in her hands, set free to wreak exactly the sort of havoc that it craved.  She could almost smell the blood upon the ground, wet earth drinking it down.  Emma shook her head, and looked pleadingly at August.

“Please,” she said, and he tensed.  “August, go back to Misthaven.”

“ _Princess_ ,” he said, standing taller, like he would refuse.  But August was no fool.  He knew as well as she did that it was the only way.  “We couldn’t possibly…”  He trailed off, a grim acceptance already setting his lips in a thin line.  His expression darkened.

Emma reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder.  “You _can_ possibly.  You have to.  If I go back, there _will_ be war.”

“If you stay, there will be one too,” Jo said.  She tapped at her lips, considering.  “War everywhere we go.  So, okay, might as well get to it now.”

Emma frowned.  “Jo, no.”

“I killed one guy already, we’ve got a head start.”

Killian perked up.  “You’re welcome to my body count as well, milady.”

“ _No_.”  Emma was adamant.  Jo was headstrong, and loyal, and _young_ , and Emma didn’t want to see her die.  “If both Misthaven claims me as a fugitive, then there will be a stay of conflict.”

Killian hummed.  “And just how long do you expect that to last?”

“However long, it will have to be long enough.”  Emma stood to her full height, putting on a tone that brooked no argument.  “August, you are the captain now.  Jo, first mate.  Get my ship back to Misthaven, and tell my parents to do as I said.  I _will_ find a way to fix this.”

August and Jo both looked incredibly reluctant, but they nodded all the same, shifting easily from friends to loyal subjects.

“I’ll provide a distraction,” Emma said.  “Just enough to get you both on the ship.  Is everyone else on board?”

“Yes, Princess,” Jo answered.  “All crew members, barring those here, are aboard...and a few extra trinkets.”

“ _Jo_.”

“Sorry, Emma, but no kingdom needs that many silver trays.”

Emma sighed, but bid that they go, not before Jo and August both embraced her, a compulsion borne of the circumstances.  She couldn’t help but to hold tight, and then watch with despair as they dissolved into the forest’s thick underbrush.  The darkness within seemed to feed not only on anger, but on sorrow as well.  The sense of loss was incredible, and she faltered beneath the weight of it.

“So,” Killian said, his voice enough of a distraction to force air back into her lungs, at least.  “What of this diversion?”

In the urgency of the moment, Emma hadn’t really cared why Killian followed them.  But now, as the night became still, waiting for them to make their next move, she grew suspicious.  If he was some kind of immortal, all powerful being, what could he possibly need from her?

“What do you want?” she said, folding her arms over her chest.  “Why are you still here?”

His jaw clenched.  Emma could hear his teeth, grinding together.  “I’ve told you, love.  I’d like to discuss this…development.”

“Alright.  Talk.”

“What I have to say will take more time than you have at the moment.”

“ _Nothing_ takes that long to say, unless you’re talking in circles.  What are you hiding?”

Killian’s nose wrinkled.  She could _feel_ his anger, his frustration, like a metal so hot, it almost felt cold to the touch.

“One hundred and fifty _years_ I’ve carried this darkness on my back.  I’ve lived through several lifetimes.  I know this power, how it moves and breathes, how it thinks, how it tricks.  And now, we are bound together by _it_.”  He rested on the last word, baring his teeth.  Both fear and fury lived in that expression, and Emma couldn’t help but feel cowed.  “Perhaps you’d like more than a hello and goodbye?”

For everything working against him – the darkness, the cavalier manner in which he killed the king and his guards – there was something in Emma that begged her to trust him.  And it was nothing to do with the darkness.

“Fine,” she said, petulant against the instinct to trust, unflinchingly.  

Killian only smiled, faintly, and gestured for her to lead on.  So, she did, walking away from the family she’d made at sea, unsure if she’d ever see them again.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who left comments and kudos! Endless love and gratitude, as ever, due to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this story. Warnings for this chapter: violence, language

The ambient noise was quick to rush back in.

The worst of it was, Emma could hear August and Jo retreating to the ship.  Dry branches cracked under their feet.  The ground sloped down towards the sea, and as they went, heavy soil became wet sand, and she listened to their footsteps rasp while she and Killian crept along the tree line.  When she lost the sound of her friends, she listened harder, and the gentle chirp of insects grew shrill and unbearable.  The power of the darkness sloshed in her chest, and she felt as though her ears must have been bleeding.  The horses carrying the guards towards her ship were agitated.  They huffed and stamped.  The wind screamed through the trees.  With every gust, the branches whined.

The forest shouted.

Her ship cried.

Her feet crushed the living debris underfoot.

_Stop_ , she thought, reaching up to tug at her own ears.

_There_ , Killian replied, and the symphony quieted.

Emma looked over her shoulder.  He wore a neutral expression, aside from a twitch in his brow.  It gave him away.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“You told it to stop.  Well, there you are.”

“ _Don’t_.”

_How can I trust you?_

If Killian heard her thoughts, he elected to ignore them.  He licked his bottom lip, clearly an effort to keep the sneer off his face.

“As you wish,” he bit, and looked ahead, passively waiting for her to go.

One step, and it all came rushing back in, somehow even _louder_ than before.  Emma tried to ignore it, to tap into a source of magic or will or _whatever else_ , but she couldn’t find one.  She was overwhelmed with the world around her.  The light magic within – always so clear and bright, as far back as she could remember – was giving over to shades of gray.  She did not know this magic, and it did not know her.

_I think you’ll come to know us quite well_ , several voices said to her, over the screech of the noise.

“Maybe…” she said, and looked back at Killian once more.

Again, the sound dissolved, quickly, like snow in the water, the world muffled and soft.  Emma breathed deeply, more relieved than she was willing admit.

“I told you, love,” he said, regarding her carefully from underneath his lashes.  “I’ve been the Dark One longer than anyone you know has been alive.   _Trust_ me.  This will all go a lot smoother if you do.”

Emma could only look at him.  She shifted in place, grabbing hold of the fabric of her dress and twisting it in her hands.

“We can go around behind the soldiers,” she said, kindly, and it was as much of an apology as she could or _would_ muster, given the circumstances.  He nodded, gesturing once more for her to lead.

It struck her as a bit odd that such an ancient person would allow her to guide his hand.

_He wants something,_ one of the voices suggested.

_Just as eager to have your magic as the king we’ve killed, I’m sure._

_After all, who wouldn’t be?_

“Hush,” she whispered.

“I’ve not said a thing,” Killian said.

“You know what I mean.”

He was quiet as they walked along the castle grounds, from shadow to shadow.  The guards and the horses grew louder still, hardly a river’s width away.  Their voices became distinctive, their apparent leader commanding some to remain behind and guard the ship, and others to –

“Bring me the charm,” he shouted, in a gruff voice.

“Charm?” Emma repeated, stopping at the very edge of the forest, where it bent towards the harbor.  She braced herself against a mighty cottonwood, the corky bark digging into the palms of her hands.  There at least, where the breeze off the bay carried the sweet smell of water, the faint echo of brine, there was some measure of comfort, of familiarity.

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” she said.

Killian seemed much less inclined to hide in the shadows of the tree, standing just where the moonlight broke along forest’s edge, the very tips of his boots bathed in silver.  His eyes washed out in the contrast, appearing white.

“No,” he answered.  “I would imagine it doesn’t bode well.”

He shifted, then, a cold and imperious expression settling on his face.  Emma could see it in the tense of his muscles, the splay of his hand, and before he could take a step into the clearing, she reached out, and grabbed a fistful of his coat.  The faint runes on the fabric flared to life, warm beneath her fingertips.  She froze, wondering if she was due a curse or a hex.  Yet, as quickly as they lived, they died, sinking harmlessly back into the thick, black leather when she let go.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” she said, ignoring the odd coat in favor of urgency.  “You can’t just walk right out there.”

He turned to look at her, slowly, stiff and unliving.  His eyes were impossibly bright, and in that moment, Emma realized she was not looking at whoever Killian Jones claimed to be, but at the Dark One, whatever it truly was.  The spectre of the man she had only just met glanced down at where her fingers had met fabric.  Curiosity flickered, briefly, before shuttering behind the darkness.

“Diversion,” he said, simply, voice layered over with several others.  He shook his head, and life seeped back into his bones.  “I believe I _can_ just walk right out there, darling.  What are they going to do?  Kill me?”

“What are _you_ going to do?  Kill _them_?”

“Only should they strike first.”

“No.”  Emma was resolute, glaring up at him until he stepped away from the clearing.  “I’ll do it.”

He frowned.  “You’ve been the Dark One for less than a day, love.  Do you truly think you can command it?”

_Probably,_ she thought.  She heard laughter in her mind.

The darkness spoke, _Oh, is that so?_

“Yes,” she answered, though she did not believe it.

Killian did not hesitate.  “Alright, then.  At your leisure, Princess.”

Emma opened her mouth to argue with him, and stopped when she realized he had agreed.  She narrowed her eyes, and waited for him to laugh in her face, walk out, and kill every one of the people gathered near her ship.  He said nothing, watching her quietly.

“You’re kidding, though, right?” she said.

He smiled blankly, dark color swirling in his eyes and creeping outward.  It was unsettling.  “Trust.”

Emma shuffled on her feet, longing to have something with which to fidget.  She only barely resisted the urge to twist her fingers up in her dress yet again, or worse, to reach out and twist the leather of the jacket he wore beneath her palm, to feel the unnatural warmth seep up through her arm.  It was always one of her most unbreakable habits, slouching and fiddling, something both her mother and father were quick to give up on, merely offering that it was hard to look intimidating when one is folded up like a child.

_Posture is for the battlefield, Emma, not the breakfast table._

Her father’s voice again, echoing in the hollow left by the curse.  The darkness clawed at it, tearing it to pieces.  Emma flinched, and Killian tilted his head.  She wondered if he had heard it too.

“Okay,” she said, more for her benefit than for his, mustering a reckless amount of courage before she stepped into the clearing.  Given the brilliance of the moonlight, and the sheen of her dress, she only had to take a few steps before one of the guards caught sight of her, setting off a flurry of motion and voices.  She stood her ground.

_Standing motionless in the grass, why didn’t I think of that?_

Killian’s voice was quiet and fluid in her mind.  She scowled.   _You can do it your own stupid way next time_.

_Next time?_

_Quiet._

Much to Emma’s delight, the vast majority of the guard came her way, hooves pounding on the uneven ground.  She tensed as they approached and formed a dense ring around her, wondering how, exactly, she would fend them off should they attack.  The presence in her mind offered up the vision of Killian in the great hall, the guards crumpling to their death, a brutal and unfeeling end.

_It couldn’t hurt to have a backup plan,_ a voice suggested.

Others agreed, and as she thought on it, she realized it was awfully...rational to kill the soldiers, should they strike.  Her magic crackled at her fingertips, and she began to feel detached from herself, uncaring and free from mercy.

_It’s much better this way_ , another voice said.  It sounded as though it grinned.

“Interesting.”

The word was spoken, blithely, by a man in the crowd before her.  He rode a small, painted horse.  A curious choice for one who was obviously a man of great importance, the men and women around him sitting higher in their saddles, or leaning back on their heels, moving respectfully out of his way as he approached.  When he leapt to the ground, Emma could understand why he had no need for a splendid animal.  He was taller than any person she had ever seen.  The armor he wore was clearly custom, though not bearing the same oiled shine as that of the others.  It was heavy, having some actual utility.  Gashes wound down the breastplate, another on his right shin, a third on his left pauldron.  Though they had been polished, Emma couldn’t help but to suspect he’d asked his smiths to leave them be.  If it weren’t for his height alone, the obvious evidence of battle would be enough to cow anyone.  The charm he wore around his neck – a deep, blue stone set in silver – did nothing to soften him.

He smiled, and the eerie expression – framed under dark, lank hair, given by a cruel mouth – quieted even the horses.

“Hello,” he said congenially.  “You must be Princess Emma.”

The darkness hummed, and showed her a vision of the man before her, his heart in her hands.  It clashed oddly against reality of him.

“Did the dress give me away?” she said, flatly, trying to sound unaffected.

The man laughed.  The sound was rich, and hearty, as though he’d learned to _truly_ laugh.  It threw her off guard.  He leaned on one foot, and the casual way he stood would give any passers by the impression that she was meeting with a friend.  It was completely disarming.  But Emma had always held tight to her armor.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told,” she said, “but I did _not_ kill your king.”

He pursed his lips, and tilted his head.  Tilted and _tilted_ , the angle sharp and unnatural before he swiveled to the other side, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes.  The charm around his neck seemed to quiver with magic.  Emma blinked, briefly untrusting of her own eyes.

“Unfortunate for us both, then,” he said, leaning forward, “that the people say otherwise.  I would have preferred an alliance.  But my uncle insisted that binding you was the right course of action.  Alas, he’s paid for that decision with his life.”

“Your…uncle?”

He smiled again, before it faded to the same oddly vacant expression he’d worn just moments ago.  The same expression King Arthur had worn before he’d filled her with darkness.

_It must be a family trait_ , she thought.

“Yes, indeed,” he answered.  “I am Mordred.  Soon to be king of Camelot, as it were.  I couldn’t quite decide whether I ought to thank you, or kill you.  Something in-between, perhaps?”

Emma frowned, and felt an ancient stirring in her belly.  Power surged at her fingertips, and the soil beneath her feet shifted.  The weight of the air around her changed, and her ears began to ring.

“I didn’t kill King Arthur,” she snarled, her nails digging so deep into her palms, she wondered that she didn’t feel blood dripping through her fingers.  Magic positively _boiled_ in her blood, begging to be set free.  “He _bound_ me to a – a _curse_.  The man who killed him…he only did so to save my life.”

Mordred scratched at his neck, looking for all the world like a boy.  A _tower_ of a boy, but a boy all the same.

“Curious, then,” he said, “for the Dark One cannot be killed.  From what death could you possibly need saving?  What life needs preserving?”

Mordred stepped forward, then, and the length of his stride eliminated the comfortable distance between them.  The guards around them began to shift.  The horses seemed to spring back to life, snorting loudly, breath crystallizing on the chill of night.

_Kill him,_ the darkness suggested, many voices at once.   _Be rid of him before he is rid of you._

She could see it in her mind, the crack of Mordred’s spine.  Her fingers twitched.

_Not yet,_ she thought, _I can’t, I_ can’t. _My crew, they need more time._

_Rubbish,_ one voice said.   _What better distraction than to kill the heir apparent?_

“You’re right,” Emma whispered.  

_Careful, Emma._  Killian’s voice rose above the noise.  

It felt as though he stood between her and the darkness.  The voices quieted, the magic receded, and Emma wondered what she could _possibly_ have been thinking.  She looked up at Mordred, who seemed content to wait for her to speak, blandly watching her whisper to herself.

_Madness sharpens madness,_ she thought, wildly.

“I could still fix your kingdom,” Emma said, desperate.  “Like you said, we could be _allies_.”

He shook his head.  “You are no fool, Princess.  I believe you know as well as I do that it’s simply no longer possible.”  He reached down, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, leaning back and forth, and back again.  “My uncle, however, was _indeed_ a fool.  There is no reason to dabble in darkness.  When it can be controlled, why not take it all?”

Emma could almost _hear_ Killian snort.   _This man has lost his marbles._

“And you,” Mordred continued, reaching down for the blade at his hip, “are the conduit to some of that darkness.  It would be a pity to let you go to waste, so I’ll be having you.”

She blinked, opened her mouth, and in that spare moment, Killian appeared just behind Mordred in a swirl of deep red magic, the sneer on his face pulling tight at the chords of his neck.  His teeth lay bare, glinting in the moonlight when he spoke.

“You and your _former_ king alike can’t seem to understand that one cannot _possess_ a human soul.”

He reached out to grab a hold of Mordred’s shoulder.  When the dull metal of the man’s armor touched the palm of Killian’s hand, the charm Mordred wore pulsed with a bright light, and Killian cried out in pain.  It seemed to have thrown an invisible barrier around Mordred, some kind of terrible magic in his flesh.  It seeped outward, a darkness apart from their own, power enough to sear into Killian’s hand, the sensation echoing in her _own_ hand.  She hissed, tears leaping to her eyes.  Mordred appeared delighted.

“ _Two_ conduits, then,” he said.  “Curious, though not unwelcome.”

The change was sluggish, oddly discordant with the way he stood – leaning heavily to one side, pulling absent-mindedly at the tuft of fabric that curled out between his breastplate and his greaves – but when Mordred scowled, the thunderous expression itself appeared to be made of the very essence of darkness.  He was _terrifying_ , and Emma had never felt quite so afraid.

“I’ll _have_ you now,” he repeated, sounding nothing like himself.  Once again, he reached for his sword, and Emma took the chance.  The heavy blade at Mordred’s side was slow to break from its sheathe, and she reached out for Killian’s hook, begging the power inside her to take them away.  Many voices answered, and with a familiar drop in her stomach, Mordred and his guards disappeared from view.

* * *

Killian cursed loudly in her ear the moment they arrived.

_At the vault_ , Emma realized.  She had no fondness for it, but the only sounds – besides the soft thud of Killian’s feet as he paced, muttering a slew of obscenities in languages she didn’t recognize under his breath – were of the natural sort.  Emma breathed in deeply, met by the smell of earth.  The sea must have been leagues away.  With any luck, her ship and her crew had left Camelot behind.  She thought of August and Jo, slinking along the coast.  The darkness clutched at the thought, pouring all manner of _what ifs_ at her feet.

_You should have killed him when you had the chance,_ they chided.

_How?_ she wondered.   _He’s..._ bathed _in some kind of darkness._

They did not answer, churning quietly.  The sensation made her feel half-deranged.

“Emma.”

Killian’s voice was soft, still distressed, but calming all the same.  He tugged at his ear, fingers lost in the hair curling at his neck.

“I should…”  He shuffled on his feet, bashful, if she was reading him right.  And judging by the prickle of his mind against hers, she was.  He looked down at her feet, then at her eyes, his own like pitch in the shadows.  “I ought to thank you.”

Emma tilted her head.  “For what?”

“For saving my life, I think.”

“Is that what happened?”

He sighed, appearing _frightened_ , of all things.  The Dark One, possessing immeasurable power and immortality, plagued by fear.  She couldn’t imagine that was a winning combination.  The fear felt like cracks in her skin, the liquid darkness in her soul sure to seep out, devouring everything in its path.  She bit down on her tongue, and focused on the sound of Killian’s voice.

“Honestly, love, I have no idea.  I’ve met all manner of magics before, but none quite so treacherous as that.  Whatever darkness Mordred commands through that bloody _charm_ , it’s elemental and unfeeling.  Certainly speaking of more power than you or I could ever hold.”

He paused, reaching up to scratch at the base of his skull, then down to grasp the hilt of the dagger at his side, leaving his hair a mess.  Emma felt hysterically close to laughter, the difference between where she was in the morning, and where she was now, stark enough to drive anyone mad.

“Well,” she said, standing as tall as she could on her shoes, heels sinking into the ground, “what are you going to do about it?”

Killian frowned.  “Pardon?”

“We’ve been chasing or chased since the moment we met.  Now we’re here.  You’re the Dark One, and so am I.  What the hell happens now?”

“Judging by what I’ve learned of you thus far, Princess, I imagine you’re about to tell me.”

“You’re damn right.  We talk to Mordred.”

_Kill him, perhaps?_ the darkness suggested.

_Yes,_ she answered automatically.  Then, _No._

The darkness tittered, and Killian scowled.  “You’re bloody delirious if you think I’d allow you to speak to that man again.”

“I’m sorry, _allow_?”

He seemed to grow taller, a faint shimmer washing over his skin.  Like a predator, he circled her, the fabric of his jacket brushing against her hands, the runes in the fabric once more flaring briefly to life.  His voice adopted the very same quality she’d heard before, many living in one.  Emma folded her arms over her chest, trying to appear unimpressed.

“Aye,” he said, “ _allow_.  This power is _mine_.  No matter what king or beast bound your soul to the darkness, know that I alone have born it for all these years.  I _took_ it, and no one, not even a princess of the realm, shall wrest it away.  Your reckless naiveté is sure to enslave you, and given that you are bound indirectly to me, it’s only a matter of time before I’m found, and torn from my willing exile.”

Emma lifted her chin, barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at him.

“So it’s all about _you_ , then.”

He stopped before her, his lips curling over his teeth.  “I have risked myself for love, and for revenge.  As it seems I no longer have either, I’d prefer to exist in some measure of peace.”

His voice rose and fell, sharp on the downturn.  His nostrils flared, and his jaw ticked.  Emma narrowed her eyes.

“I’m not going to just run away,” she said.

“And what _will_ you do, exactly?  It’s only a matter of time before you give into the darkness, and do something reckless.  What would you do, I wonder, if I were no longer here to curb its influence?”

“Why do you care, _anyway_?”

Killian did not answer.  For some time, he simply watched her.  Her mind was pointedly silent, or silent _enough_ , the insidious voices and influence of the darkness indeed momentarily curbed, at least for as long as he could manage, the effort knitting between his brow.

_You’ve made your point,_ she thought.   _I’m still going to do what I want._

He made a put-upon face.  “If nothing else, I can say I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

“A royal genius?”

“A royal pain in my arse, more like.  Naive, hopeful, sure to get yourself killed, likely to drag me down with you.”

“That didn’t end up being as complimentary as I thought it would.”

He sighed, and tilted his head.  The moonlight caught in his eyes, and again he appeared human.  

“Listen,” he said.  “I understand what’s at stake here, love, but there’s nothing to gain from speaking with Mordred.  He’s absolutely mad, and is sure to use you for his own purpose, whatever that may be.  Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“You mean the conduit thing?  Yeah, I’m not an idiot.”

Killian looked as though he might start tearing his hair out at any moment.  “And yet you still insist on speaking with him.  Have you any idea what you’ll even _say_?”

“I do,” she said, petulant.  He only watched her, expectantly.  “ _Mostly_.  I want to know what he wants, and then I have to convince his people to turn on him.  Are you going to help me or not?”

He ignored her question.  “I see you have _all_ the details worked out, then.”

She huffed.  “Well forgive me for making it all up along the way.  I can’t go home, and I can’t stay here.  I’m not just going to _wait_ until something happens.   _You_ can do whatever you want.”

_You can do whatever you want._

There was something awfully strange about listening to someone turning her words over and over in her own mind.  For reasons unknown, that phrase seemed to resonate with him.  He seemed confused by the decision, or even that he _had_ a decision.  He shuffled on his feet, and her own voice echoed softly in her mind once more.

_You can do whatever you want._

Emma made a face at the odd sensation, though she tried to be subtle about it, looking down and brushing imaginary dirt off her dress.

_Or no_ , she thought, giving the fabric a shake.   _Real dirt._

“I know you can hear me thinking, darling,” he said, softly, kindly even.  She looked up at him, and his eyes were a warm blue.  “No need to be coy about it.”

She only shrugged.

“Listen,” he said, stepping forward.  She had to crane her neck to look at him.  The persistent whisper in the back of her mind quieted, and the buzz of the unfamiliar magic through her veins began to fade.  “ _Yes_ , I will help you.  Frankly, I’d be a fool not to, given how much is at stake for me.”  He hesitated.  Then, quietly, “However, I have a condition.”

“And what’s that?”

He shuffled closer still.  Even towering over her, when his expression fell, he appeared boyish, lost.

“Don’t take this from me,” Killian said, quietly.  “You’ll want to be rid of the darkness, I imagine?”

Emma nodded, unable to answer aloud, briefly mesmerized by the deep and resonant sound of his voice.

“If you can take it from me…”  He swallowed, hard.  “Don’t.  That’s all I ask.”

“Okay,” she whispered.  Whatever spell lived between them, it shattered when he stepped back.

He cleared his throat.  “Alright, then, Princess.  Lead on, as ever.”

* * *

“I’ll be happy never to see another _bloody_ tree in my life.”

Yet again, Emma found herself at the edge of Camelot’s grounds, looking upon the castle.  She was grateful, at least, to see that her ship had left the harbor.  The guards appeared to have dwindled in their absence, and she had used her magic to change from her evening dress to the trousers and leather she typically favored.  An uptick in fortune, she thought.  Killian didn’t seem to see it the same way.

“You’re so dramatic,” she said.

“Better to be carefully dramatic than recklessly blasé.”

Emma frowned.  “I don’t see the problem with just walking up and knocking on the door.”

“Forgive me, love, but that is _ridiculous_.”

“It’s _just_ as surprising as poofing straight into the castle.”

“Surprising for the lot of you, then, considering you haven’t a bloody clue where Mordred is.”

“And you do?”

Killian rolled his eyes, and pointed up at the castle.  “Aye, he’s in that tower, _there_.”

She nearly _growled_.  “Why didn’t you just _say_ that?”

He shrugged, waved his hook.  “I thought it was obvious.  Can’t you feel it?  Or smell it, for that matter?  The magic he carries is odorous, to say the least.  Like the precursor to a storm, earth and lightning.”

Emma looked up at the very tower at which he had gestured.  Warm light flickered from within.  Killian opened his mind to her, and her nose flooded with the smell of stagnant water.  The hairs on her arms stood on end, a blue puff of magic emanating from the very spot in the castle at which he had pointed.

“How do you _do_ that?” she said.

“It’s no natural talent, I can assure you.  I fumbled with the darkness for many years before I became proficient.”

She regarded him from the corner of her eye.  “That’s a lie.”

“Aye, but a flattering one.”

“Just stick to the truth.  I can’t work with dark magic for shit.”

_Aye, but you feel like the light._

The thought, it felt unbidden, and Emma flushed in time with him.  She looked back up at the tower, and reached for the broken blade Excalibur at her side.  It was a facsimile of the original, a glamor spell cast upon Killian’s cutlass.  He had cast another upon the true blade that bound her, now strapped to his belt, appearing as a simple longsword.

“You’re a bloody fool for giving this to me, you know,” he’d told her.

“As if I have a _choice_ ,” she’d answered.

He had said nothing in reply.

“Alright,” Emma said, shuffling in place.  “You can stay here – ”

“Don’t be absurd, love.  I’ll not leave you to that man.”

In truth, she would rather not face Mordred alone either, but Killian was a force of nature, like water and wind, sluicing along the earth, quiet power in a lithe body.  He was alternately charming, and terrifying, and though Emma’s gut called for her to trust him, he was otherwise an unknown, a century and a half of an unliving life stirring under his skin.

“Who _are_ you?” she said, before she could will herself not to.

Killian’s face fell, stricken, just for the briefest of moments.  He blinked, she mimed, and the expression disappeared.

“The Dark One,” he answered.

Emma looked away, and ignored his chilling answer.  “You ready?”

He reached over his shoulder, and pulled a hood up over his head, glimmering eyes swallowed up in shadow, the runes on his coat sparkling faintly in the evening light.

“Aye,” he said.

If Killian was surprised when she reached down for his hook, he did not show it, watching her quietly while she summoned the magic from within.  The darkness, it lived apart from her, stalking through her mind as though she was nothing but a vessel, prodding at the places she had been hurt.  She had to _ask_ it to obey.

_I just want to go up to that tower,_ she said, looking inward.  Grudgingly, it acquiesced.

The room to which the darkness took them was bathed in golden light, chandeliers swinging gently from the arched tray on the ceiling.  A great stone fireplace crackled away on the southern curve of the room, embers spitting pleasantly along the hearth.  Pillars abutted the wall, and they looked something like the sycamore trees that lived along the streams in the wood.  The delicate masonry rose and fell with the smooth undulations of bark, up and out towards the leaves.  They splayed along the ceiling, reaching towards the chandeliers as though they were an array of suns.  There was almost no furniture, save for the table in the center of the room, hewn from tiger wood, bearing maps and trinkets and blades, and powders in clear glass jars.  All the sorts of things Emma recognized from Regina’s own tower in Misthaven’s castle.  The belongings of a woman once caught by villainy.  The table before her, bearing those of a man still living in its jaws.

Mordred, underneath a great arched ceiling, appeared less grand, and more human.  He hardly looked at them when they appeared, staring down at a map of the kingdoms, stretching from Camelot, down past the mountains of the Enchanted Forest.

“I never did favor geography, you know,” he said, tilting his head one way, then the other.  “When I was a child, I never thought I’d leave Camelot.  But then, of course, the world always seems impossibly large when you’re young.  Now, it’s shrinking, faster than ever.”

Emma frowned.  Her fingers twitched, and she realized she still held Killian’s hook.  She was reluctant to let it go, wondering how long it would be before Mordred’s deceptive nonchalance shattered.  But her embarrassment overcame her fear, and she released it.

_I won’t leave you_.  Killian’s voice was clear above the crackle of the fire, the tinkle of the chandeliers overhead.

_I know._

_Do you?_

Emma did not answer.

“You knew we were coming?” she said.

Mordred looked at her, then.

“What a drab question,” he said, as though he were remarking upon the weather.  “It doesn’t matter now, does, it Princess?  What matters is why you’re here.”

The voices of the darkness rose in both pitch and volume, squirming as Mordred approached them.  His boots echoed loudly in the hollow of the room.  Killian stood completely still, even the subtle rise and fall of his chest halting when Mordred stopped before them, hardly a stride or two away.

“You seem like a smart man,” Emma said.  “Why don’t you guess?”

Mordred smiled, and this too was pleasant, like nearly every face that he wore.  The magic that lived just on the surface of his body, however, as before, it _burned_ against hers, the charm he wore glowing softly.  Emma worked hard to school her expression.

“I imagine you’re wondering why I wish to have your power,” he said, leaning back against the table, folding his arms over his chest, throwing one ankle over the other.  The posture of a friend.  “It’s as complicated as any diplomatic mission you’ve ever undertaken, yet as simple as black and white.”

Emma frowned.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Mordred laughed, a warm and rich sound, quiet in the hush of night.  He tilted his head, and watched her carefully, sparing no glance for Killian, who remained frozen at her side.

“It means that people, my dear, complicate everything they touch.  All I want is prosperity, and just like the magic you wield, it demands a price.  It is my duty to ensure that _this_ kingdom does not pay the price for the magic I intend to use.  If I must take what I want from the kingdoms adjacent, then so be it.”

Mordred’s hand came to rest briefly on the charm at his neck.

“So, what,” Emma said, “you want a quick solution to every problem your kingdom faces, but you don’t want to face the consequences?”

Mordred remained silent, and for the first time since they had arrived, he looked at Killian, from head to toe, before looking back on her, with exactly the sort of deadly intent she had been expecting.  Been _wanting_ , really, in lieu of his painfully discordant smiles.

“Sorry, Princess,” he said, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything else.”

“What would you say to a bargain?”

“Oh?”

Emma faltered.  The dark, elemental magic _bled_ from Mordred’s body, faster now, burning brighter.  Killian, who moments ago had appeared to all the world as little more than an artist’s rendering, shifted on his feet.

“There are few who I’ve met that can resist a deal,” he said.

Mordred’s eyes slid languorously to Killian’s.

“Ah,” Mordred said.  “You must be Rumpelstiltskin’s successor.”

For all that Killian seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, the look on his face – just barely illuminated by the firelight beneath his hood – did not waver.  His mind, however, typically pressing softly against her own, shuttered away, the darkness shrieking briefly before it disappeared behind the curtain along with him.  Emma felt momentarily bereft.

“I’m impressed,” Killian said, his voice dragging like gravel over bedrock.  “You know your history.”

“Necessary, I find, in my line of work.”

Mordred stared at Killian, and Killian stared back.  They were caught in a silent competition, and though Killian was a sure and immortal presence at her side, Emma couldn’t help but think he was losing, that they were _both_ losing.

So she drew the copy of Excalibur from her side.  She had to admit, the dark magic was terribly useful.

_Isn’t it just?_ a voice said.  Power surged pleasantly in her veins, and Emma felt oddly apart from herself.

“This,” she said, jostling the sword in her hands.  “You can take it.  Just, please…”  She stumbled over her own words for a moment.  As much as the deal was a ruse, she thought again of her family, all caught unwittingly in whatever deadly game this man was playing.  “ _Please_.  Don’t hurt my people.”

Mordred considered her, his brow pinching.  “Is that all?”

“I want to know what you plan on doing.”

“I imagine you would.”  He stepped forward, one long stride, and reached out.  “Alright, then, you have an accord.  But I’ll be having _that_ first.”

Emma hesitated for as long as she dared, watching for the man to falter.  As many deals and trades as she’d brokered, she could recognize a stalwart player.  And with the stakes so high, she couldn’t stall for long.  She reached out, and dropped the pommel in Mordred’s hand.  Unceremoniously, he allowed it to sag towards the ground.  The magic he carried in the charm arced outward, devouring the farce, the dust the sword left behind picking up in the breeze that floated in through the open windows.  Emma tensed.

“You think you’re so very clever,” Mordred said.  “And I suppose you are.  But there is no deception that magic can’t shatter.  I’ll have you _and_ your companion.  Your kingdom will fall, and there is no _bargain_ that can stop it.”

_Time to go, darling._

Killian’s voice seeped in among the others, but it was quickly drowned out.  She knew what they had agreed, that they would run the moment the ruse was broken.  But the words echoed –

_Your kingdom will fall, your kingdom will fall._

– and the dark presence inside her was quick to take notice.

_You could end it_ , one said.

_End him before he ends you._

_Before he can even think to tread on you kingdom’s soil –_

_– murder your father and mother._

_– everyone you’ve ever held dear –_

_Get on with it, dearie,_ kill _him_.

Emma bit down on her tongue, _hard_ , tasting blood in her mouth.  The wound sealed over, but the metallic taste remained.  That, as much as anything else, spurred her forward, her hand closing around Mordred’s throat.  His skin burned into hers, his magic lashing back at her, his charm blinking wildly.  But she couldn’t bring herself to let go.  She pushed him back, until his head crashed into the table.  She leaned over him, the darkness spilling out of her mouth, out of her hands, in many voices and in the strength of her hands.  It was _exhilarating_.

Behind her, Killian called her name, but she ignored him.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

Fear flashed in Mordred’s eyes.  The pain in her hand crested, spreading up her arm.  A shimmering darkness crawled along her skin, cracks appearing in her flesh as though she were made of stone.

“ _Tell_ me!” she shouted.

Mordred squirmed beneath her, blood trickling from his neck where her nails gripped.

“The wood,” he said, gasping.  “The witches in the wood – ”

The great, arched door near the fireplace opened, revealing a whole mess of guards.  Killian reached out, his hook looping around her elbow.

“Emma,” he pleaded.  “ _Let go_.”

She did, only by virtue of the guards spilling in, and the pain in her arm.  She leapt back, startled.  At herself, at the heady rush of blood through her veins.  

_That’s what true power feels like_ , the darkness told her.

Mordred coughed and spluttered, swiping at the blood on his neck.  Just as Killian grabbed onto her hand, and called the darkness to take them away, Mordred reached out, magic seeping out of his charm and twining down his arm, reaching for the true Excalibur at Killian’s side.  The glamor spell broke, and whatever foul curse Mordred had cast seeped into the blade the very moment the darkness enveloped them in a swirl of red.

“Bloody hell,” he said, when they arrived at the vault.  “What did he do to your hand, love?”

Emma snorted, the sound at grave odds with the situation.  “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

He glared.  “It’s the most pressing, I’d say.”

She looked down.  It was excruciating, sure, but the darkness within was a balm, reaching out to prod at the injury.  The cracks in her skin began to fade, and the relief that was left behind rivaled the feeling of Mordred’s throat between her fingers.

“You,” Killian said, sighing long and loud, “are a marvel.”

Surprised, Emma laughed, one loud guffaw.  “Didn’t think that was how that sentence was going to end.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

She smiled faintly, and opened her mouth to thank him.  For remaining at her side, for pulling her away…

But then Excalibur began to stir.  Startled, she wrenched it from the sheath at Killian’s side.  The liquid magic that had poured from Mordred’s hand slithered down along the intricate designs, through the letters that spelled her name, dripping off the broken end.  The ground beneath them trembled, and Killian reached out with his hook, catching at her belt to pull her away.

“What the hell?” Emma said, looking at Killian.

“I haven’t a clue.”

The magic – blue as the sky on a clear day – warped the earth.  Like water, it inundated the soil, and began turning, round and round.

“It’s a bloody _portal_ ,” Killian said.  The words were barely out of his mouth before Mordred rose from the mess, and he was clearly _livid_.  In contrast to the faces he’d worn, it painted a terrifying portrait.  Killian didn’t wait for Mordred to leave the confines of the portal, transporting them elsewhere, _anywhere_.

“Fuck,” he said, releasing her when they settled.  He buried his hand in his hair.  Emma nearly stumbled, disoriented.  Killian must not have taken them far, the forest having the same make and terrain.  Even so, as much as she’d trained, she’d never been a proponent of the whole teleportation thing, preferring to sail anywhere she could, to walk anywhere she couldn’t sail.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” she agreed.  “I don’t even know where to start.”

“I’m going to _kill_ that man.  Bleed him into the sea, listen to him _beg_.”

Emma found herself agreeing, of all things.  Before she could echo him, Excalibur again began to tremble, the same magic sliding down the blade.  A harrowing déjà vu, intent on dragging them into the belly of the earth.

“ _Emma_ ,” Killian said.  

The earth made a terrible noise as it began to turn, rock grinding against soil and water.  She took his hand, stepping close, and looked up at him.  Quietly, in contrast to the noise behind them, the sound of blood rising in her ears, she spoke –

“Run.”


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, love and gratitude to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this story.

Dawn broke, gentle and quiet, before Emma was convinced that Mordred no longer followed close behind.  Whatever curse he had cast, the magic strange and unknowable to her, it did not seem to be able to follow them on foot.  From her perch on a fallen log – the dew, gathered on tufts of moss, seeping into her trousers – she listened.  The sounds of the forest echoed brightly in her ears, no longer quite so intrusive.  Droplets of water coalesced at the crests of leaves, falling to the ground with a soft thud.  Birds all around began a tentative song, ruffling their feathers, and picking away at the soggy bark of the mighty oaks.  The breeze was gentle, but steady, and the gnarled branches creaked as they swayed back and forth.  Water living deep in the earth wound patiently through the soil, rising to feed the stream below her feet.  Smooth pebbles and boulders tumbled easily through the water, slicked over with algae.  It was a pleasant chorus, atonal but synchronized, growing louder as the sun angled higher.

_All magic comes with a price_ , Emma recalled, from her lessons.  She wondered if the price for the subtle magic of the wood was the encroaching darkness.  When she closed her eyes, she felt as though the voices around her drew closer, long and flowing robes obscuring their faces.  When she had called the magic forth to subdue Mordred in his tower, the darkness had risen to the surface, bleeding out through the punishing grip of her fingers, in the fight against the searing pain crawling up her arm.  It was as though all the souls living within had taken a step closer.

_How many steps can they take before I give in?_

_You could never give in,_ Killian answered.

Emma frowned.  “How long are you just going to _stand_ there?”

Killian didn’t quite smile, but he didn’t scowl back either.  The stream was wide and shallow, and he stood in the center, a sparkling riffle breaking around his boots.  His eyes were closed, lashes curling long and dark against the swell of his cheeks, tinged red as he leaned back, face turned towards the warmth of the sun.

“For as long as it takes to cleanse the smell of that beast’s magic from my body,” he said.

Emma sighed, and waited, resting her chin on her knees.  She could let her feet fall into the slack, the log upon which she sat sloping down into the water.  But it reminded her too much of her mother, how she would hold on to Emma’s hand when she was a child, help her splash through the streams of the Enchanted Forest.  And of her father, how he would wade deeper than she would dare go alone and hold out his arms, urging her to trust him.  Those same streams would seem pitiful now, she was sure, against the rivers and seas she had travelled later in life.  Even so, she couldn’t help but long to return.

_We can_ never _return to the past,_ the darkness said, viciously.

“Emma.”

She looked over at Killian, swiveling her head on her knees, blinking away the shadows.

“Darling,” he said.  “Come over here a moment, would you?”

Emma glanced back down into the stream, the clouds in the sky casting a warbled reflection in the water below.

“My socks will get wet,” she complained.

He quirked a brow, but he let it go, waiting patiently to see what she would do next.  It was something he did, she realized.   _Waited_.  She wondered if he had always been this way, or if it was the time he had lived that had made him like this.

“Honestly, love,” he said, “I can’t remember.”

Emma huffed.  “Can’t you stay out of my head?”

“Hard to, when you’re practically shouting your thoughts at me.”

“Am not,” she grumbled, and despite herself, she let her feet fall into the water with a splash, wading through the pool and into the riffle, out of the dappled shadows and into a pure stream of sunlight.  It was warm on her skin, a little overwarm even, but then she had always favored the summer.  Heavy fabrics and hot fires, even when the weather didn’t quite call for it.

“You miss your family,” he said, when she stopped before him.   

The breeze kicked into a wind, and the hair that curled up and out from behind his neck trembled, bending until it brushed against the tender cartilage that whorled around and around in his ear.  His face scrunched, and he reached up to scratch it away.

It was such a human expression, endearing even, that Emma could feel her composure slip.

“Yes,” she said, quietly.

He nodded.

She took a step forward, the water gurgling loudly between the two of them, breaking around them like a boulder.  “Do you?”

Killian’s expression darkened, morning overtaken by midnight.  His mind was open to her, and she saw a brief flash of a vaguely familiar face – like his own, but kinder, tighter curls in lighter hair – before it disappeared behind a deep shade of red.

“Sorry,” she said.  “Stupid question.  You’re about a million years old.”

His nostrils flared, he tilted his head, and some of the dawn crept back into his eyes.

“It’s alright, love,” he said.  “It’s easy to forget.  And…”  He paused, and Emma could _feel_ him fighting to keep his eyes on her, the compulsion to look down at his feet so very overwhelming, _she_ almost looked down at her own.  “…I do.”

The sounds of the forest took precedent when Killian remained silent for several long moments.  The tension broke when he sighed, and he looked out over her shoulder.

“Tell me, Emma,” he said.  “Where to now?”

“Seriously?  You still want to follow me around?  We almost died.   _Twice_.”

He was clearly amused by the incredulity in her voice.  “I meant what I said before.  Whether I like it or not, your fate is tied to mine.  Doubly so, now that Mordred has cast some sort of spell on Excalibur.”

“How noble.”

“Besides,” he said.  “I can hardly think of a worse fate than to face this alone.”

Killian _did_ look down at his feet, then, reaching up to tug at his ear.  He was nervous, she realized, though she wasn’t sure why.  Nearly two days this man’s mind had been inextricably twined with her own, yet she felt as though she didn’t know a thing about him.  He liked leather, clearly, and rings, judging by the blackened jewelry on his fingers.  He wore several faces, and bathed himself in magic.  And as dark as it was, as unforgiving and merciless, it reminded her of Regina’s.  Sharp, but warm.  There was something profoundly sad about him, too.  Lost.  But Emma couldn’t puzzle it out, several parts of him hidden from her.  Where her own mind felt like a bramble, impossibly tangled, exactly the sort of unpredictable mess in which she thrived, Killian’s felt like a labyrinth, ordered, with a code she didn’t understand.

“So,” he said, hunching a bit beneath her scrutiny.  “Where to next, your highness?”

“Funny,” she answered, “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“Contrary to what you may think, I don’t know everything – ”

“I _wasn’t_ thinking that.”

“ – _however_ , I might suggest we start with these witches in the wood, whoever or whatever they are.”

Emma folded her arms over her chest, unimpressed.  “Uh, _yeah_ , I got that.  But the only so-called ‘witches of the wood’ I’ve ever heard of were in a storybook my father used to read to me.”

He looked at her sharply.  “Oh?”

She shrugged.  “Yeah, but it was a children’s book.”

“What did it look like?”

“I don’t know…”  She mimed a shape with her hands, trying to recall the binding, the lettering, the drawings within.  “…sort of, you know…rectangular...”

Killian snorted, softly.  “ _Sort of rectangular._ You are by far the most poorly spoken princess I have ever met.”

“Well _excuse_ me for growing up around a bunch of miners and privateers.”

He smiled, clearly amused.  “And just how did you avoid lessons on comportment?”

Emma hesitated, wondering if she had revealed too much, but then figured, if she didn’t tell him, he could easily glean it from her mind, whether it was of his own volition or not.

“ _War_ ,” she answered, at length, and his smile faded.  “My whole kingdom was at war until I was twelve.  I spent most of my childhood in the woods, or with our kingdom’s trusted privateers.  Hiding out, moving around, that sort of thing.  By the time we were rebuilding, and my brother was born, I think it was too late to make a princess out of me.”

He scrutinized her, and Emma squirmed.  “...anyway, weren’t we talking about a storybook?”

Killian looked as though he might press her, curiosity sparking in his eyes.  But then, “Yes, the rectangular book.  Anything else you can remember?”

“It was big,” she answered, thinking back, “and bound in brown leather.  It was called _Once Upon a Time_ , I think.  I only read it a few times, it wasn’t really my kind of book.”

He nodded, as though she had said exactly what he expected her to say.  “And tell me, what did it say of the witches?”

Emma closed her eyes, shut them tight.  She remembered, before the war ended, tucking in underground, her father pulling soft, tattered blankets up to her chin.  It was rare that she saw him, but when she did, he always carried two things for her in a tattered satchel.  The first was always something he’d found.  A smooth, bright pebble, the skull of an animal, white and polished over with time, a blade even, always accompanied by a lecture on safety, and a lesson in disarmament.  The second was always a book.  Her mother would take her through the woods, down towards the sea if they were close enough, and in the evening, her father would read to her.

“A perfectly winding river,” she said, and opened her eyes.  “It was about a man who had been turned into a stag.  He followed a river upstream, all the way from Camelot.  Then something about it turning to buttermilk?  It emptied from a cave that looked like a creepy smile, I remember the drawing.  The stag followed the shadows from there, and found the witches, who turned him back into a man.  Then I think…did they eat him?  That might have been a different story.”

Killian looked mildly horrified.  “And these are the stories your father read to you when you were a child?”

She only shrugged.  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Indeed,” he said, and it seemed like he wanted to say more.  Emma could feel his mind whirring to life.  He opened his mouth, but then he shut it, with an audible _click_.  “I believe we’re looking for the Héahdéor.”

Emma leaned back, blinking rapidly at the unfamiliar, mellifluous word.  “Sorry, what?”

“The Héahdéor, darling.  Means ‘stag’ in Old English, as a matter of fact.  It’s the river that empties around Camelot, flows through its famous moat…did you not learn these things before you arrived?”

“Uh, no?  It didn’t seem relevant.  I know the coastline,  and that’s about it.”

He smiled, and glanced pointedly down at their feet.  “Lucky for you, I believe you’re standing in one of its tributaries.”

“You’re kidding.”

Killian stepped back, gestured ahead for her to lead.  “No better way to find out.”

“We’re really going to take the word of a _book_ I barely remember?”

“‘Storybook’, I find, is often something of a misnomer.  Every tale carries at least a grain of truth.  Otherwise, why bother telling it?”

Emma grudgingly agreed.  But then she hesitated.  There in the sunshine, in the gentle breeze, everything seemed to stand still.  Only the sun appeared to move, tracking slowly through the sky.  Moving on meant allowing the proverbial clock tower to grind back to life.  The weight of what lay before them settled back on her shoulders.

_You can do this_ , Killian thought.  It almost sounded sincere.

“Alright,” she said.  “Let’s go.”

* * *

Emma couldn’t quite decide whether she was relieved or exasperated when they reached what Killian claimed must be the Héahdéor.  He didn’t say it, but there was a distinct _I told you so_ air about him as they followed along the banks, the water too deep and too fast to accommodate them any longer.  Younger, gentler trees gave way to brittle willows and silver birches, old wych elms climbing higher along the slopes.  The trees were spectacular, and the crystalline waters threw a glimmering reflection of their great, winding branches back up at her.  Emma preferred the sea, she always had, but there was something to be said for this terrain, especially when the trees thinned out just a bit, and she could stand in the sun, allowing some of the water to drain out of her boots.

“I told you not to wade quite so deep, love,” he said.

“Well don’t you just know everything.”

He shrugged.  “You seemed attached to the dryness of your socks.”

“Why don’t I just – ”

Emma reached down to cast a minor spell, but Killian’s hand clamped down on her wrist before she could.

“Emma, _wait_ ,” he said.  The magic stirring in her skin receded, the darkness pulling back petulantly, voices chattering loudly in her ear.

“ _What_ ,” she snapped.

“I think it would be best if we avoided magic until we talk to these witches.”

Emma opened her mouth to protest.  But then she thought of the portals, rising from whatever curse had been placed on Excalibur, and of Mordred and his guard emerging from under the ground.  She reached for its hilt, fingers gliding over the pommel.  It smelled faintly of the power that emanated from the charm that Mordred carried, though curiously it did not stir.

“I do not know the spell that is bound to your sword,” he continued.  “It may be that he can only follow us when we transport.  But it may _also_ be that he can follow _any_ scent of our magic.”

She sighed.  “Well, fuck.  I almost just killed us because my socks are wet.”

Killian laughed, clearly startled.  “I wouldn’t go quite so far, but I would advise against casting any spells, even one so inconsequential as…”  He gestured down at her boots.  “…that.”

Emma grumbled, shaking her feet, and they moved on.  

The river began curling westward, growing wider for a stretch before thinning, the deep sandy basin and stagnant air giving the water the appearance of metal.  It reminded her of the sea on a still day, out where the swell of the tide and the mysteries of the bottom would give it the appearance of glass, a window to a container of molten iron.

_You love the sea, don’t you?_

Emma wasn’t sure whether Killian was thinking it, speaking it aloud, or both.  She turned to look at him.

“Don’t you?” she said.

He frowned, and the fluid way he stepped beneath the swooping branches of the saplings, over fallen logs and weathered boulders, became terribly rigid.  Oddly enough, his hand began to tremble, just slightly.  When her eyes lingered on his fingers, he grabbed onto the hilt of his dagger, the blade itself shaking with him.

“When you’ve lived as long as I have,” he said, quietly, “it’s hard to hold onto a fondness for much of anything.”

Emma tilted her head.  “Liar.”

He looked at her, sharply, and shadow overtook half of his face, one eye impossibly bright and beautiful, the other glinting black.

“Oh?”

Emma tapped at her forehead.  “I can always tell when people are lying.”  

In truth, her ability to suss out a liar had been muddied by the many souls living beside her own.  But, she reasoned, Killian didn’t need to know that.  He only regarded her warily as they walked, hand and hook still shaking faintly.  They continued that way for quite awhile.  But the silence was deafening, the darkness speaking in her ear, twisting her in her own mind until she didn’t recognize herself.  For whatever reason, his voice seemed to chase it away.

“Ten questions,” she blurted.

“Pardon?”

“I can ask you ten questions, and you have to answer.”

He was quiet for such a long time, Emma stopped to look at him.  He was frowning, a deep furrow in his brow.

“One,” he countered.  “ _Just_ one.”

She hummed.  “Eight questions, then.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, love.   _One_.”

“Five?”

He seemed exasperated, though not without humor.  “Last I checked, five was more than one.”

“Alright fine, three.”

Killian ducked his chin, a wry smile crinkling up at the corners of his eyes.  “You’re a bloody thief of a politician, aren’t you, darling.”

“Listen, you talked me _down_ to three.  You should be celebrating.”

“I’m sure that’s what the comparative plebeians at your table think when you’ve argued them into submission.”

Emma rolled her eyes, turning back to her path.  The underbrush began to clear, and the ancient broadleaf trees gave way to pine, needles crunching beneath their feet.  The rush of the water grew faster still, and the slope of the land became sharp, natural stones jutting out of the soil serving as makeshift steps.

“Sure, sure,” she muttered.  “I have you for three questions.”

“So it would seem.  Well go on then, love, what’s your first?”

Emma didn’t hesitate.  “How did you become the Dark One?”

Killian’s steps faltered, his boots smacking hard against a vein of limestone.  “You aren’t one to play games, are you?”

She didn’t answer, merely waited.  The puzzle of his mind began to shift, the moving parts swinging open.  Emma saw a fractured memory, pouring out of him like broken glass.  A boy lost at sea.  A younger, brighter Killian Jones, wearing military dress, older and hurting, wearing a brocaded vest.  One hand, then two, then one again.  A man wearing a tattered cloak, shivering with fear, the same man twisted with darkness.  All of it together, a mess, indecipherable.

“You’ll think I’m a monster,” he said.

Emma frowned, though she kept going, hoping their measured travel up along the craggy shore of the river would ease his mind.  But it didn’t, sharp edges pressing in against hers.  She remembered something her mother used to say, during the war, when Emma would find herself filled with hatred for their aggressors.

“Not all sinners are monsters,” she told him.  It felt like the right thing to say.

For some time, Killian didn’t say a word, and Emma followed alongside the river, watching the water carve its path through layered rock.  She counted her steps, impatience gnawing at her gut.

_Why not just take it from his mind, eh, dearie?_

One of the more prominent voices, Emma noted, stringy and wild.

_Why not just fuck off?_ she answered, ineloquently.  Still…it did.

“There are two ways to become a Dark One,” Killian said, at length.  “The first, clearly, is to be bound to a piece of the sword.  The second…is to kill the Dark One before you.”

“Rumpelstiltskin?” Emma guessed.

“Aye,” he answered, quietly.  “He took something from me.  I took something of his in return.  It was to be the penultimate triumph of my life, destroying the man who destroyed me.  And then, I thought I could die in peace.  Only…well I can’t die, can I?  Now, a piece of that man’s soul lives on in my mind, and will do so forever.”

“If you hate it so much, why are you so desperate to hold onto it?”

As quickly as Killian’s mind had broken open, it gathered back up, slamming shut.  Emma dared to look at him over her shoulder.  Even in the warm sunshine, he appeared deathly pale, a faint shimmer to his skin.

_He can never be rid of me,_ someone told her.  It was the same voice from before, louder now, and terribly grating.   _And now, neither can you._

Emma ignored it, and waited.  Until the color swelled back into Killian’s cheeks, until he blinked, and breathed, and looked at her like he remembered her.

“Is that your second question?” he said, gruffly.

She hesitated.  Then, “No.”

“Good.  I wouldn’t have answered anyways.”

She opened her mouth, hopefully to change the subject – although she couldn’t quite be certain with herself, not now – but he interrupted.

“Buttermilk,” he said.

“Uh, what?”

He pointed over her shoulder, down where a stream fed into the river, a gentle sloping waterfall pouring into the Héahdéor.  It tumbled over a weathered lip of rock, a distinct, milky appearance that disappeared the moment it reaches its confluence.

“Water like buttermilk,” he said.  “We’re getting close.”

* * *

The sun had set by the time they reached the mouth of a cave.  Less like the rocky grin that had been drawn in her book, and more like a toothy grimace, it jutted neatly from the flattened landscape, leading up to a grove of silver birch, their delicate leaves trembling in the breeze.

“Gross,” Emma said, peering down at the milky water, spilling out of the mouth of the cave.

Killian quirked a brow.  “It’s not _actually_ buttermilk, you know.  I think it’s rather charming.”

“It looks like it’s vomiting.  At least it’ll be good for…”

_For drinking_ , she thought, and then paused.  

She hadn’t taken a single drink since they set off.  Hadn’t eaten either.  She figured the adrenaline carried her through the night before, but now another night approached, and she felt...nothing.

“Is it ridiculous that I _just_ realized I haven’t eaten, or drank, or _slept?_  At _all_.  It’s been two days.”

Killian frowned.  Standing beneath him on the slope, he towered over her, a grim expression on his face.

“You’re the Dark One now, love.  You don’t need to eat, you _can’t_ sleep.  Magic and prices and all that.”

“No eating _or_ sleeping?  What the hell?  Who would want this?”

He laughed, humorless.  “I suppose it depends on how much one values power.”  He leaned down, then, just enough to look her in the eye.  Emma could feel him thinking, just a faint stirring of his mind.  He seemed determined to allow her thoughts to be hers and hers alone, the two of them locked away in private recesses, at least as much as they could manage.  Even so, when he thought and thought _hard_ , his mind weighed against hers.  She wondered how she felt to him.

“In your case,” he said, slowly, “not very much, I’d wager.”

“You’ve got me all figured out, huh.”

He answered, simply, “No.”

Emma was sure she had never felt so vulnerable in her life.  Though her gut told her he wouldn’t, all of the grim voices within suggested it was only a matter of time before he broke her open and poured himself in.

_Shut up_ , she told them.  

They did not answer her.  She huffed, and stomped through the underbrush, where the pine needles and craggy rocks grew thin, gradually replaced by gossamer blades of grass.  Killian followed, just a few steps behind.  The entire grove was bathed in silver moonlight, dappling in the shade of the leaves.  Superficially peaceful, an unknown fear began to pool at the base of her spine, growing heavier the further they walked.

A path began to open up before them, leading to a clearing in the wood, where just in the center, the ground had caved in above the water.  It gurgled through the rock and soil, appearing as pitch in the burgeoning moonlight.  Dread, aided by some unknown magic, clashed against curiosity.  

“There’s some kind of magic here,” she said.

“Aye, I can see it.”

She turned to face him.  “Yeah?  What is it?”

He held out his hand, urging her to take it.

“Can’t you just _tell_ me?” she said, frowning at his hand.

He didn’t answer her, only waited, like he was made of stone.  Emma sighed, and let her hand fall into his.

When she blinked, she wondered how he knew.  That touching her would allow him to open her eyes through his.  The world as he saw it came to life with shades of magic, from light to dark.  It arced through the air, bursting from the ground and rising through the trees, falling elsewhere like a rainbow, loops so great that they must have moved the realm itself.  It lived in the ground, seeped through the soil.  It trembled in the water.  She turned around, at his urging, and saw a crystalline barrier, tall and irregular, pushing up through the clearing.  It pulsed with light, and burned into her eyes, sickening dread, a knife plunging into her gut.  She gasped, and let go of his hand.

“We shouldn’t go in there,” he said.

“Why not?”

He looked at her like she’d grown a second head.  “Did you not _see_ that barrier?  I know wards when I see them, and that, darling, is a ward.  It _reeks_ of darkness.”

Emma frowned.  “Nothing ventured…”

She reached down and grabbed his hook, walking, determined, towards the ward.  She focused, hard, and its jagged, shimmering edges began to appear in her vision.  Killian protested loudly, falling silent when Emma pushed through the barrier – revealing a wide swath of grass, and a curious wooden structure – and promptly dropped his hook.

“…nothing gained,” she finished, feeling particularly clever.

Killian scowled, teeth peeking out through his lips.  “What would you have said if I’d _perished_ at the hands of that foul ward?”

She shrugged.  “…everyone lives?”

“You, Princess, are frightfully cavalier.”

“And you’re painfully dramatic.”

“Only one of those is bound to kill me,” he said, pointedly, and stepped around her, shaking off the magic that no doubt still clung to his skin.  It clung to her too, prodding at the well of magic in her heart.  If he was right, and it was indeed a ward against darkness, she wondered if it was…broken?

_That’s not quite right,_ Emma thought.

_Or perhaps it was designed to trick, and you’ve sentenced us both to death._

“If you’re going to argue with me,” she said, “at least do it out loud.”

“It’s hard to ignore you when you’re always thinking so loudly.”  Killian quirked a brow at her, before he turned towards the center of the clearing, gesturing mildly.  “What do you think of this?”

Emma turned to the edifice that stood in the very center of the clearing.  It appeared to have been built over the crack in the earth, where the water bubbled sluggishly through the rock.  She wondered how it even stood, as it appeared to be several fishmonger’s shacks stacked haphazardly atop one another.  Where they met the forest’s canopy, the branches appeared to jut in through the open windows.  The sheer precariousness of it made Emma’s stomach turn.

“I think if I breathe too hard, it will fall over,” she said. 

Killian scoffed.  “It’s not gravity and proud engineering that hold this structure aloft, Emma, it’s magic.”

Emma reached out, tentatively, with her own magic, still unfamiliar with the way it thrashed beneath her control, like a wild animal.  The voices sneered at her gentle intent, but she ignored them as best she could.  She pushed at the shacks before her, and felt a quiet, terrible magic push back at her.

She looked up at him.  “What _is_ this?”

He looked puzzled, frightened even.  “I haven’t a clue.”

“Alright, well…”  Emma stalked around the shack at the bottom, looking for a door.  When there did not appear to be one, she reached up for a high window.  The shutters hung from broken hinges, no glass within the window proper.  She remembered finding abandoned places like this – though, admittedly, without the bizarre architecture – in the Enchanted Forest.  She also remembered the startled noise her father would make when she’d run off to burst through the door, or climb through the window, with little or no forethought.  It sounded a lot like the noise Killian made when she did the same now, landing on the rickety floorboards with a loud creak.  He grumbled at her, halfheartedly listing all sorts of reason why what she was doing was a terrible idea.  

But she could not hear him, lost to the sight before her.

Witches of all ages were scattered across the room, somehow much larger within than it appeared without.  If they were aware of Emma’s presence, they certainly did not let her know.  Dressed in rags, and apparently devoid of sight, dark magic poured from their fingertips, and from their mouths.  Like blackened oil it seeped from their bodies, draining into the water that gurgled sickeningly below.  They wore the same expression as the woman that had bound her to Excalibur, and wore the same clothing.  A charm, much like the one Mordred wore around his neck – a stone set in silver – hovered above the gaping hole in the uneven flooring.  Whatever power it carried, it called to her own darkness, _burning_  her from the inside out, and the voices within grew louder, shrieking in desperation.

“Oh gods,” Killian breathed, when he appeared at her side.  Emma glanced at him, and was caught by the look of devastation on his face.  He took a halting step forward, his hand shaking violently.  “What have they done to you?”

He focused on the charm suspended above the water.  He cursed, viciously, and reached out to take it.  Magic jolted up his arm, and he cried out.  The pain echoed in Emma, and she was reminded of the dark magic that had stolen up her own arm when she’d closed her hand around Mordred’s throat, brittle stone setting in where once there was flesh.  She flexed her fingers.

“There’s more,” Emma said, grimly, pointing at the winding staircase in the corner of the room.

The second and third floors were much the same, the viscous magic pouring down between the cracks in the floor, dripping along the walls.  It was like a moment of war plucked from time, the wounded never dying, the blood never washing away.  Emma had seen war, had seen torture and desperation, much like this.  Her jaw ticked as she moved from one floor to the next.  Killian followed, and she knew enough of him now to recognize when the Dark One had taken him.  His face was deathly pale, shimmering faintly in the arrhythmically pulsing light down below.  More of a machine than a man, looking blankly at the witches as he passed by.

“Above,” he said.

Emma looked up at him.  “What’s above?”

“ _Above_ ,” he repeated, in several voices, and climbed the stairs.

There, on the fourth floor, wide windows were thrown open to the light, the fluttering leaves of the birch trees spilling in through beautifully stained glass.  The floors were still crooked, and the walls were full of gaps, but upon an ornately carved captain’s chair sat a lone, beautiful woman, a scrap of fabric pulled tight over her eyes.  Judging by the scarring on her brow, and on the swell of her cheeks, Emma supposed she was as sightless as the rest of them.  Absurdly, she smiled when they entered, white teeth flashing briefly in the moonlight.

“Emma,” she said, softly, her voice like a song.  “You’re here.”

Emma frowned, and ignored the obvious question.  “What’s happened to these people?”

“Fate,” she answered, simply.  “I suppose it’s not long now.”

“A seer,” Killian whispered.

The woman turned to him.  “Killian Jones.”

“Aye, I’ve met your kind before.  Wretchedly vague and unhelpful, aren’t you?”

She seemed unperturbed by this.  “I’ll answer whatever question you ask, Captain.”

_Captain?_ Emma thought, briefly.

Killian gestured to her, his voice sharp and unyielding.  “Answer hers _first_.”

The woman turned back to her, and did as he asked.  She spoke quickly, and with a distinct air of _knowing_.  As though she had had this conversation before.  Emma supposed that, in a way, she had.  

“I imagine you can guess what happened to them, Princess,” she said.

Emma frowned.  “Mordred?”

“Yes.  The witches of the wood were once respected advisers of the crown, but he has cast us into servitude, bleeding us of our magic, and tainting it with the darkness he’s wrangled from the charm below.”  

Confused, Emma tugged at her hair.  “But _why_?”

“The waters beneath this prison are _alive_.  They are the origin of the very power that moves the earth, traveling deep underground before rising to feed the Enchanted Forest, the Héahdéor, _every_ magical place in the realm.  The magic that he has stolen from us seeps into these waters, and corrupts them, spreading gradually throughout the world.”

Emma’s head spun.  She thought of the knowing trees in Misthaven, the living Lake Nostos, the power of those places under the control of _one_ man, taken by madness.

“You have more questions,” the seer said.  “ _Quickly_ , Princess.”  

“The charms...”  Emma said, the first thing that came to mind.  “...what _are_ they?  Where are they from?”

Again, the seer did not hesitate, speaking urgently.  “The magic possessed in the charm below, and the charm that Mordred carries, is as old as the realm.  The stones set in silver were both carved from deep within the earth, where the very fabric of time itself first unfurled.  One, the stone Mordred carries, is a guardian of death.  It protects him, extends his life.  The other, the steward of the waters of life, the very waters you see below.  It can call the waters up from the heart of the realm, where here they are turned to darkness.  The charms, they are a _balance_ of life and death.  In the wrong hands, and with the waters corrupted, the stones are unpredictable.  They are chaos, they are the end of all things.  In the _right_ hand, they can undo all of the darkness.”

“But what does he _want_?”

“Prosperity.  To heal when the people fall ill.  To lift them when they fall.”

Emma huffed.  “This is _Mordred_ we’re talking about, right?”

“Intention often falls prey to darkness, Emma.  In a bid for hope, a mighty sorcerer once told King Arthur that a product of true love would rebuild his kingdom…and harold his death.  His obsessive desire to lift his people up, at all costs except his own life, has brought death to that sorcerer, and has brought _you_ to where you stand.  You are a light in the darkness, caught between two kingdoms.”

In such stark terms, the weight fell heavy on Emma’s shoulders.  She tried to stand tall, looking briefly to Killian, who appeared as marble, clothed in obsidian, glinting dangerously in the starlight.

She swallowed, reflexively, and looked back to the seer.  “What should I do?”

“What you ought to do, and what you will do, these often disagree.”

Emma jumped when Killian’s hook came down hard between the seer’s fingers.  The seer did not, facing Emma even as he leaned down, his face twisted up with darkness, his breath stirring her ragged hair.

“Answer – ”  He breathed in, and then out.  “ – _her_.”

“There are two that you must seek, both in the north,” the seer said, and Killian leaned back.  “The first, the true heir of Camelot.  Follow the swan of the stars, and there she will be.”

“The true _heir_?” Emma echoed, incredulous.  “But – ”

“The second is a powerful wizard of the northern isles, living west of a frozen kingdom.  It is he who can give you what you seek, to draw out the darkness with the light.”

Emma’s head pounded.  An heir, a wizard.  Days ago, she had watched the sun break over the horizon aboard her ship, fresh with sleep and brimming over with a terrible thirst for adventure.  Often, when she was a child, hidden underground or in the hulls of stinking fishing vessels, she would long to be with her parents, to live the journey the way they did.  As questing heroes.  She grew wiser, of course, but in that moment, she understood the _true_ weight of her youthful desire.

_Questing is bullshit_ , she thought.

The seer smiled, gently.  “Have faith, Emma.  Often you’ll find that it’s all that you need.”

In the wake of the brief silence, Killian wrenched his hook from the captain’s chair, leaving behind a deep gouge.  The seer turned to face him, and the smile on her face fell.  Unbearable grief overtook her.

“I can’t,” she said.

Killian growled.  “ _Free_ them.”

“For as long as fate commands.”

“Bloody _fucking_ seer.  How _long_ will you allow these people to suffer?”

“ _Killian_ ,” Emma said, reaching out for the sleeve of his coat.  He wrenched away, agitated.  “Can’t you feel it?  There’s nothing she can do.”

“Then _we_ can – ”

“ _No_ ,” the seer interrupted, harshly.  “Where the dark magic goes, Mordred will follow.  Step carefully, Dark One, do _not_ wield your magic, or your path will be brought into sharp relief.  Now please, _go_.  The ward trembles.  Mordred’s guardsmen approach.”

Killian turned to Emma, desperately, the Dark One draining from his face.

“ _Emma_ ,” he said.  She strained her ears, and could hear the hooves pounding against the ground, tree branches snapping in their wake, underbrush crushed down into wet soil.  She hesitated.  But then, the seer threw her head back, and the voices of all those within the shacks shouted, long and loud and mournful.

_“Go_ ,” they cried.  

Emma grabbed Killian’s hook, and ran as fast as she could, down the crooked steps, the voices following them, the vile darkness slick beneath their boots.  They stumbled through the open window, out through the ward, and down where the birch grove, bathed in gentle light, gave into shadows, ancient gnarled pines like great sentries.  Though the sound of the guard faded, Emma did not let go of his hook, and she did not stop running, slowing only when the seer’s voice echoed clearly in her mind.

_When light meets dark,_ she said, _what’s been broken will be remade._

The darkness within recoiled.

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Emma thought.

_When light meets dark_ , the seer repeated, quietly, with grim inflection.  The wind rose, and the chorus of night grew unbearably loud.

_What’s been broken will be remade._


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and devotion to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this story.

“Follow the swan of the stars, and there she will be,” Emma intoned, looking up at the sky.  

It had been a few hours since they had fled Mordred’s guard, running through the forest, _again_ , until they were certain that no one followed.  The sound of those wretched voices were still with her, the collective shout of the witches of the wood like a torrent of ancient torment, rattling at the floorboards of that cursed edifice.  She took a deep breath, and reached down within, where her temperamental magic resided, asking the darkness to let her see the world.  To see it how Killian saw it, arcs of magic in the sky, silence where silence needs be.  It did not heed her.

“She’s talking about the Cygnus,” Killian said.  

He did not look at her, instead watching shadows swirl along the edges of a quiet, vernal pool, fog rising where warm winds met still, cool water.  His mind felt brittle, leaning heavily on hers.  Despite that, she could not hear his thoughts, and she could not feel the familiar rush and whir, the one that fluttered when he was puzzling something through.  It felt as though he’d locked himself away from her.

“What’s the Cygnus?” she said.

“Constellation.  Before your time.”

“Where?”

“Sky.”

_I know it’s in the sky, smartass._

Emma figured she was due a biting retort, but he did answer her, aloud or otherwise.  She looked down at his hook, growing wet as night began to tip toward morning.  It trembled.  His hand trembled too, the hairs curling at his ears shaking, and Emma stepped close.

“Okay,” she said, and sighed.  He jumped, clearly not expecting her to be so close.  Still, he did not turn to look at her.  “Heir first, mysterious wizard later.”

Killian turned his head, and she caught him in profile, the starlight stark against the hard lines of his face.  She was surprised to see that he did not scowl.  The dark expression he wore when he was agitated, when he was little more than foul magic wrapped in leather, was gone.  He was clearly reluctant to face her, but did so all the same, looking down at his feet.  He reached up to tug at his ear, but when he moved, his fingers shook even more violently, and he couldn’t seem to keep a hold of it.

Emma frowned, and took a hold of his hand.  It was heavy, twice the size of her own.  Her skin glided over his, and he seemed to sag where he stood, bruises deep beneath his eyes, ancient sorrow written all over his face.  It reminded her of the seer, of the witches worn down to a half-life, probably wishing for death.  She could hardly bear it, and so she looked down at his fingers, which fluttered between hers.  The burnished jewelry he wore appeared unearthly, darker than any metal she had ever encountered, shimmering with a vile magic.  They seemed out of place by his knuckles, which were curiously soft and delicate.

“What’s wrong?” she said

He sneered, his lips pulling back over his teeth, shadows pouring into his eyes.  When he spoke, it was a frightening sound, but familiar, a chorus of voices.

“You were standing in that room too, Princess,” he said.  “Surely you noticed the same barbary?  And did nothing about it.”

“You can blame me if it will make you feel better.”

Killian tried to yank his hand from hers, but acting on instinct, Emma didn’t let him.  She held on, and the longer she did, the quicker the fury was to fade.

“I…”  His voice cracked, and his hand shook harder.  “…I could have freed them.”

Truthfully, Emma wondered if he was right.  Could they have freed them?

_Or taken them for your own_ , the darkness said.

She scowled.   _Stop it._

_Freed them, taken them, you did neither, running from a few guardsmen, like the cowards you are._

“ _No_ ,” she said, though she wasn’t sure that she believed it, “you couldn’t have freed them.”

Killian blinked, and the blue began to reappear, threading through the black.  A part of her wondered how such an old soul could be so tormented by possibilities gone by.  She wondered if it was his nature, or if he had been twisted by the darkness that had lived in him for so long.  Were his mind still open to hers, he would have answered her, unwittingly or not.  But when she reached out to him, she found nothing but walls.

“I know,” he said, quietly, to Emma’s surprise.

“Then _why_ are you saying you could have?”

“An old habit.  A wise man once told me that guilt corrodes the soul.  I suppose, in days past, I hoped I would corrode until I could no longer recognize myself.  Perhaps then I could live with everything I’ve done.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

“Yeah, that sounds like that’s not what he meant.”

Killian sighed, and his fingers flexed, still trembling, though hardly by half.

“Indeed,” he said.  “It was not.”

“You shouldn’t take things so literally.”

A smile, wan and overtaken with shadow, but a smile nonetheless.  “You’re wise for your age, aren’t you, darling.”

Emma shrugged.  “Not really.  That was something my mother and father used to do, before the war was over.”

“Talk sense into you?”

“My mother did, yeah.  She’d tell me to never look over my shoulder.  That you can’t let every tragedy weigh you down.  So many of the people we loved…were lost.  She knew what it meant to make sacrifices.  She was born to be queen.  And, not in just…”  She gestured broadly with her free hand, her pinky nearly catching him on the chin.  “…you know, the literal sense.”

“And your father?”

“He’d try to get me to smile.”

Killian took a deep breath, and hummed, stirring the hairs that had fallen from her braid.

“Seems you caught the best of both of them,” he said, kindly.

Emma blushed, and looked back down at his hand.  She considered letting go, but still he trembled.

“Uh...yeah, sure...so, what’s going on here?”  She squeezed his fingers.

He shook his head.  “I’m not entirely sure.”

His mind may have been hidden from her, but it was in his eyes, the way he shifted first to one foot, then back to the other.

“Liar,” she said.  She lifted his hand closer to her face, turning his palm up.  The runes on the sleeve of his coat flared red.  His wrist twitched, as well as his hand, the braids of muscle quivering up his arm.  She pulled at the fabric, revealing tender flesh and, curiously, the bright and beautiful edges of a tattoo, the swiveled point of the very dagger to which he was bound peeking out from beneath layers of fabric.

“What’s with the tattoo?”

Hardly had the words left her mouth before he jerked away, his rings scratching uncomfortably against the palm of her hand.

“It’s not your concern,” he said, darkly, and turned his back to her.  He looked up at the sky, standing as still as the boulders nearby.  He nodded, almost imperceptibly, to the northwest.  “Cygnus leads there.”

Emma frowned.  “It has something to do with Rumpelstiltskin, doesn’t it?”

Killian did not answer her.

“What did he take from you?”

He looked at her over his shoulder.  Or past her, more like.  When he spoke, it was with whispering multitudes, repeating, “It’s _not_ your concern.”

“If Cygnus is a constellation, I’ve never heard of it.”

Like she thought it might, the abrupt change of topic startled the darkness out of his mouth.

“Pardon?” he said, in his own voice.

“I’ve been sailing for _decades_ now, and I’ve never seen anything called _Cygnus_.”

Killian was slow to answer.  He frowned at her, curious, and then beckoned her forward.  He cut a fluid path through the forest, Emma close behind.  She was uncertain, as she watched him, whether the shadows falling long and thick on his back were drawn down on him from the canopy above, or whether he carried them within, and they spilled from his shoulders.

“I would imagine – ” he said, and paused when the trees thinned out.  He pointed up at the sky, standing close enough that she could follow the reach of his hand.  Close enough that when he spoke, his breath was warm in her ear, playing with her hair.  “ – that you know it as the archer and the bow.  The bow, long ago, by a people not your own, was once seen as a swan.  They called her Cygnus.”

Emma held her breath until he stepped away from her, and walked on.

“I think I prefer the bow,” she said.

“To a swan?”

“Swans are _mean_.”

He laughed, then, and seemed as startled by his own laughter as she.  He shut his mouth, though his faint smile lingered.  His mind, softer than before, though still hidden, shifted against hers.  His hand still trembled, and he reached down to rub at his wrist with the curve of his hook.  When he saw her watching, he let it fall away, and looked at her with a caged expression, the very nature of which seemed to be a lie.

_What are you hiding?_ she thought, tilting her head.  He mirrored, and glanced back up at the stars.

“Are you certain that you want to do this?” he said.  “Take the word of a seer?  Go after a supposed heir of Camelot?”

“And then this wizard, whoever he is, yes.”

He grimaced.  “You’re awfully trusting, darling.”

“No, _desperate_.  If there really is a true heir, then Mordred can be deposed, and war can be avoided.  That’s the _only_ way.  Turn the force of his entire kingdom against him.  If he really is as well intentioned as the seer claims, then he wouldn’t wield his power against them.  If he isn’t...well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Killian regarded her skeptically, though, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was also impressed.

“And what if this _true heir_ is worse than Mordred?” he said.

She threw up her hands.  “Well, if you have any _other_ ideas, I’m willing to listen.  Otherwise, we don’t have a choice.  We only have so much time, and we can’t just...I don’t know, wander around until we find something else.”

“And if the seer was an agent of Mordred?  A tool to mislead?”

Emma huffed.  “She _wasn’t_.  I can tell when people are lying to me.”

For some time, Killian watched her, before looking back up at the stars.

“Are you certain?” he repeated.

_Ugh_ , she thought.  “ _Yes._ Are you?”

His expression softened.  “Not at all.  But if _you_ are...well, I suppose that is some consolation.”

Emma got the impression that he was _teasing_ her.  But as quickly as he softened, the darkness encroached, and he stood tall, gesturing to the north.

“This way, then,” he said, turning away from her.  Emma hesitated.

_Why are you still with me?_ she thought.

The darkness hissed, emerging like a flood off the bay.   _There’s no telling, dearie._

_How long before you leave me behind?_

The voices laughed.   _No one ever did stay with you for long, did they,_ Princess _?_

_Why do I trust you?_

_You’re a fool._

But all she said was  – “Alright.”  – before she followed him deeper into the wood.

* * *

“I’m curious,” Killian said, as they walked, the very next night, following the bend of the swan above.

The path they followed was relatively clear, and every now and then, he stopped and craned his neck, stark chords disappearing beneath shimmering black leather.  He would look at the stars, and then guide them forward.  Emma knew the view of the stars from the sea, but here on the innards of land, the angles of the shapes they drew were unfamiliar.  Like the great gods of the sky had been toppled over on their sides.  She figured it took a great deal of time and knowledge to read them on both land and sea, but then again, maybe that’s how he had spent his centuries, filling his head with useful things in case…

_In case of what?_ she wondered.

_Perhaps he’s not been quite as exiled as he suggests,_ someone answered.

_Perhaps he has secrets_ , said another.

_Yeah, but so does everyone_ , Emma defended.

_A few decades worth, to his few dozen._

Emma shook her head, ignoring the chatter as best she could.  It itched and _itched_ , begging her to do something reckless.  Though...the darkness was tamer since the seer had told them of the nature of the curse that Mordred had cast on Excalibur.  It made her shiver, thinking that the Dark One might be as frightened of Mordred as she.

“You’re supposed to say _about what_ ,” Killian said, with careful patience.

Emma glanced at him, then at the ground below, stepping carefully over a patch of young nettles.

“If you have this conversation all planned out,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “then why don’t we skip to the end?”

He frowned.  “Well typically, I find that people are predictable enough to play along.”

_I imagine they would be, given that you’re ancient._

Emma waited, but Killian did not answer her, as she suspected he might.  He only looked at her.  It was uncanny, how he could both watch her and navigate the forest.  The terrain was uneven beneath their feet.  As it sloped down below the escarpment to the east, the waters hidden in the ground rose to make a mess of the soil.  She felt at home, having spent a good deal of her childhood knocking through the waterlogged flats hidden deep within the Enchanted Forest.  Killian appeared to have risen from the ground himself, gliding like the very waters that fed the swamp.

_Can’t you hear me?_ she thought.

Again, he did not answer.  She sighed, feeling oddly bereft.

“About what?” she intoned, at length.

He smiled, faintly, an echo of a man, as though he was a memory come to life.

“The seer,” he answered.  “She said something curious.  Seemed to imply you may have had magic before this?”

Emma tensed, reflexively.

_At all costs, Emma,_ her mother would say.  Emma conjured her in her mind, a young and gentle face, drawn in weak candlelight.   _Hide your magic from anyone you don’t truly know._

_Do I truly know you?_ Emma wondered.  

Even as a princess of the realm, her magic swam in mystery.  The people of the Enchanted Forest were rightly distrustful of any monarch who bore the gift.  Regina more or less hid in the winding corridors of the south wing, the fairies disappeared when tension flowed, and Emma kept her magic to the high seas, where the creatures below whispered in languages that no sailor truly understood.  Rumors had spread, clearly.  And now, absurdly enough, she shared a dark soul with a man who had walked the realm for centuries.  If she lied, he was sure to find out soon enough.

“I…” she said.  He only watched her when she paused, standing still, ankle deep in mud.  “…yes.  I’m the product of true love.”

If he was taken aback by the revelation, he hardly showed it, looking at her head to toe, a single worry line etched between his brow.

“Could you do something for me?” he said.

Emma stepped harder than she meant to, sinking deeper into the mud.  “That’s _not_ what I was expecting you to say.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know…sudden betrayal?”

His brow furrowed.  “Why?”

“ _Not_ revealing that I had magic was always right behind ‘don’t talk to strangers’ in my parents’ book of wisdom.  I always assumed the result would be gruesome death, or something, given how adamant they were.”

Killian tilted his head, looking at her over his shoulder, from beneath his lashes.  The starlight flashed in his eyes, a flicker of darkness.  “Magic is a powerful thing, love.  There are few who would not take it, if they had the chance.”

“Would _you_?”

He hesitated.  “I have been many men.  Not all of them could give you the answer you want.”

“I just want the truth.”

Killian stopped, just as the trees thinned out.  He looked back up at the stars.  Emma couldn’t imagine their path had changed much.  He studied them as though they were lost, hard lines in his face.  His jaw worked, back and forth.  The gentle symphony of night grew louder, ringing in her ears.

“I don’t know,” he said, and truthfully so.  When he turned to look down at her, vulnerability drew an unfamiliar expression on his face.  For a moment, he looked young, and heartbroken, his shoulders fallen inward and his chin tucked down towards his chest.  In moments, he appeared to age before her eyes, whatever tool it was he carried to flagellate himself back into darkness working terrible wonders.  He stepped closer, and his coat swished in the breeze.

“Could you try something?” he said.

“Try what?”

“Magic.”

Emma rolled her eyes, and continued on the path.  Or what she thought was the path.  He fell into step with her, gently steering her in the right direction.  She would have been be angry with him, if it weren’t for the eager look on his face.

“You’re kidding,” she said.  “What, are you trying to get us both captured?”

He shook his head.  “I suspect the seer’s words were quite literal.  It is the _darkness_ that gives us away.  Whatever ancient magic Mordred possesses lives in the sword.  But then, it’s not the sword that gives you your light, now is it?”

Emma hardly gave it a thought.  “Too risky.”

“We’re in the forest, darling.  That’s _your_ terrain.  They’ve not been able to catch you yet.”

With his mind closed to her, it was easy for the ambient noise to slip back in.  Fear lanced through her spine, and the screech of soil against rock, pine needles cracking beneath her feet, they were a quick and vile crescendo before she managed to push it away.

“First,” she said, stepping over a slick boulder, around a fallen tree, “if you haven’t noticed, forest is _Camelot’s_ terrain too.  We’ve been _lucky_.  Second, what’s the point?  Magic is dangerous, we can do without.”

Killian looked at her, sharply.  “ _Dangerous_?  What does that mean?”

“It means it’s powerful, unpredictable, greedy and addictive.”  Emma ticked them off on her fingers.  He looked at her hand, wrinkled his nose, lips pulling back over his teeth.

“I was no fan of magic myself, love, but that’s an unfair assessment, and reflects poorly on whomever took it upon themselves to educate you so.”

“Uh, my _parents_?  It just about dismantled the entire Enchanted Forest, so I’m not sure I can blame them.”

“Emma,” he said, and he stepped forward, into her path, the toes of his boots nearly flush with hers.  She stopped, and looked up at him, arms crossed over her chest.  “The light and the dark don’t exist on a spectrum.  The darkness was born of vengeance, and murder, a living thing that infects like the pox.  I am merely a vessel for darkness.  But you _are_ the light.  It was born with you.”

Emma flushed, but did not look away.  “How can you be so sure?”

“I…”  Killian paused, and seemed to consider his answer.  “…I’ve learned quite a lot during my years as the Dark One.  I would not suggest that you use magic if I thought it would put you in danger, love.  Please, cast a spell.”

“Like what?  And how can I even begin to separate the light from the dark?  I feel like…”  She gestured, wildly, fingers waving just in front of his nose.  He leaned back, a put-upon expression on his face.  “…like everything is gray.  You can’t just _un_ -mix two types of magic.”

Killian sighed.  He urged her with his eyes, open and trusting.  Even so, Emma _knew_ he hid from her, so she stood her ground, resisting silently.

“There are some things that dark magic just cannot do,” he said, quietly.

“Like _what_?” she repeated.

He looked out upon the forest, to the west, where the land dropped down into a creek, the water table high, the soil wet and untenable.  There along the edge, the brush was scraggly and malnourished, gnarled trees overhead, bare branches reaching for the stars.  Emma suspected the banks upon which they grew were sure to collapse into the valley, given a season or two.  Killian stepped carefully down the hill, and crouched down beside them.

“Grow,” he whispered.  Then, louder, “I could never make anything grow.  Curses can conjure things.  Trees, landscapes, you know, that sort of thing.”  He paused, and reached down to touch the dry branches.  “But they disappear when it is broken.  Living things grow with living water.  The darkness is bound to a cycle of death.”

Emma hummed.  “So you want me to make you some flowers?”

Killian flushed, his eyes slipping down her face before landing somewhere near her hands.  “If you like.  The decision is yours.”

She considered it.  What good would magic do them?  Outside of Mordred’s terrible magic, nothing could harm them, or so it seemed.  Emma had used her light magic sparingly in the past, and when she did, it was to heal, or make repairs when supplies were scarce.  Things that didn’t matter much to them now.  

Then again, if the war taught her anything, it was to horde one’s weapons and defenses.  Misfortune favored the unprepared.

“Alright,” Emma said, before she could change her mind.  “Move out of the way.”

Killian smiled, wryly, stepping aside and gesturing grandly to the struggling plants.  “As you wish, Princess.”

Emma leaned down, and reached out to touch them with as much gentleness as she possessed.  Which, judging by the way they quivered, wasn’t very much.  She tried to recall her lessons with Regina, and the great tomes she had read in the towers of her family’s castle.  She remembered earlier still, during the war, when the fairies would find her at sea, or deep in the wood, teaching her as much as they could before the battles found her, and she was moved yet again.  Just enough to get her magic under control, to conceal it for the sake of remaining anonymous.  Nothing about what light magic was, what it could do.  

Ironically, she thought, the Dark One might teach her more about the light than she’d ever learned before.

“Are you sure about this?” Emma said, pulling her hand back, and peering over her shoulder.  Killian looked on, unblinking.

“Aye,” he answered.

She nodded, and turned back to the brush.  Another touch of her hands, and they trembled.  Emma startled, looking at Killian yet again.

“Okay, but _how_ sure?”

“Sure enough.  I am _also_ sure that I’ll desiccate if we remain here any longer.”

“You’re like a one-man theater, you know that?”

Killian didn’t answer, only bit at his lips, watching with feigned patience.  Emma looked down at the little shrubs, stretching along the forest floor.  There was something sad about them, like a scraggly river disappearing down a corridor of empty soil and into the shadows.  They would all certainly be uprooted, given the time.  The soil was waterlogged, and poor.  If she breathed life back into their roots, it wouldn’t be a season or two before they drowned.

_That’s why I_ never _thought it was very much fun to grow things,_ a voice told her.

Emma looked up.  From the shadows before her, a figure appeared to coalesce.  It was as though he looked at her through water, leaning over a deep, quivering pool.  Somehow, she _knew_ this creature.  It was Rumpelstiltskin, the object of Killian’s hatred.  His face was absolutely grotesque, the starlight catching on his shimmering, animalistic skin.  He tittered, hands waving wildly to and fro.  He was half man, half monster.

“Your other half always did liken me to a crocodile,” he said.

Emma snorted, though she didn’t answer aloud.  She glanced at Killian, finding the same affectedly bored expression on his face.  Locked away in his own mind, he did not appear to see Rumpelstiltskin.

_He is_ not _my other half_ , she thought.

“Oh, I’m afraid you’re wrong about that, dearie.”  He laughed, and she flinched.  The sound was grating, even more so than usual.  “He is quite literally your other half.  And I’m sure, just waiting for the right moment to betray you.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” she said, quietly.

“Do what?” Killian said, clearly confused.

“Oh, uh, nothing.”

The demon scratched at his skin, or scales, or whatever it was that was stretched over his bones.  “Why, _now_ seems like the perfect moment.  Convince you to summon Mordred, to have you ferreted away where he doesn’t have to worry about you.  They might even have…”  Rumpelstiltskin twirled his hands.  Absurdly, it looked as though he was conducting an orchestra.  “…an _arrangement_.”

“ _Stop_ it.  I – ”  Emma paused, abruptly, when she could feel Killian’s mind shift against hers.  Whatever walls he’d built between them crumbled.  His anguish, his fear, his self-assured and algorithmic thought, it all came pouring back in, just long enough to wrench the demon away from where he stood.

“Get,” he said, leaning heavily on one foot, as though he were about to rush forward and strike.  “ _Out_.”

Rumpelstiltskin disappeared into whatever bolted compartment Killian had crafted for him.  The demon’s wretched laughter echoed faintly as he went.  And as quickly as they had crumbled, the walls that hid Killian away from her went back up, and she was alone.

“Whatever he told you,” he said, through his teeth, “it’s _all_ a bloody lie.”

Emma looked up at him.  She _knew_ he was telling the truth.  The logic was all there, as was the way he looked at her, honesty written all over his face.  And yet.

_And yet_.  It was her own voice, and several others.  She clenched her jaw.  

“I know,” she said, trying to convince herself.

Killian looked at her, skeptical.  Emma could hardly look at him, so she turned away.

“I _know_ ,” she repeated, and crouched down.  She wondered if it was possible for one to cast a spell with light magic out of spite.  She breathed deeply, and thought of her parents and brother, of her friends, of the ship who had faithfully carried her across the sea.  She thought of Killian too, how the darkness was surely _wrong_.

_Oh are we, now?_

_Yes_ , she thought, adamant, and reached down to touch the barren underbrush.  Soft tendrils of magic twirled down her fingertips, faintly golden, and warm against her skin.  Like silk thread, chatoyant and bright, they pulled at the sad little plants that wound through the forest.  Emma held her breath, and tiny, precious flowers spun out of nothing, leaves sprouting plump and tender.  The faint, blue moonlight pouring in through the canopy rested gently on the new growth.  Like a river, they arced this way and that, further than she could see.  Even when her magic faded, they glowed, droplets of dew collecting patiently along the flowers’ tapering petals, as though they had been there for days.

“Hey,” Emma said, triumphant.  Doubt still tugged at her belly, and she waited for Excalibur to stir with dark intent, for Mordred to burst out of the earth.  When neither of those things happened, she looked at Killian, opened her mouth to tell him he was _right_.

Yet, she quieted when she saw his face.  His expression was weary, but soft, looking down upon the flowers with some mixture of awe and raw appreciation.  He stepped forward, and crouched down, rough fingers reaching out to poke gently at the little flowers.

“These are quite beautiful, aren’t they?” he whispered.

_They’re alright_ , Emma thought, but didn’t say it aloud.  The flowers were small, rather unremarkable, wild and living on scraggly branches.

“They’re Dutchman’s breeches,” she said.  “Because, you know, they look like trousers.”

Killian got back to his feet, and smiled at her.  “It was a lovely moment, darling, and then that _mouth_.”

“They’re just wildflowers.”

He stepped close, looking down at her.  Looking all _over_ her, actually, down at her hands, up around her hair.  As rarely before, he looked human, terribly so, not a touch of darkness in his eyes.  It was quick to return when he glanced at Excalibur.  

“You are light incarnate, Emma,” he said, gruffly.  “They’re not _just_ wildflowers.  They’re a testament to you.”

Emma shifted, uncomfortable beneath his appraisal.  “Or a testament to the fact that my parents are true love, and had a child.”

He leaned back, and stepped away, out of the dappled starlight and into a thick gathering of pines.

“You are _intensely_ infuriating,” he said, as he walked away.  “Are you aware?”

She did not answer, only rushed to catch up, leaving the flowers behind.  Though, not before throwing them a fleeting glance, meaning only to draw the scene in her mind, to hold onto success before she felt crushed again by failure.  But when she did, Rumpelstiltskin appeared as a vision in the night, hazier than before.  He waved at her with eerie exuberance, his thready laughter lost to silence after a moment or two, and he to shadows.

She blinked, and wondered if he was ever there to begin with.

* * *

They walked silently for the next hour or so, until, quite suddenly, their surroundings overtaken with an unnatural hush.  Emma found that, as they went, and the swan began to tilt above them, the night grew darker and darker, like a curtain drawn over the canopy.  When she breathed, she could smell the shadows, pungent and unsavory.  The trees grew taller, looming overhead.  They looked like warriors on their knees, leaning down, gnarled branches reaching out towards her.  Their long, thin leaves looked like scraps of moldy fabric clutched in their bony hands.  

The sounds were just as eerie.  Noise to silence, then silence to whispers.  

Emma wondered if this was what it would have been like to descend into the depths of the ocean, where the light could not reach.  The air was cold and damp, and faint magic crackled underfoot.  Where dawn should have been giving first light, only shadows rose.  At first, she had thought it was only her imagination playing tricks.  But now, she could not deny it.

“There’s something wrong with this place,” she said.  “Some kind of magic.”

“Aye,” Killian whispered.  

_Perhaps you ought to turn back_ , the darkness suggested.  

Emma huffed.   _And go_ where _, exactly?_

_Anywhere but here._

Where often the voices were mocking, now, they seemed fearful.

“That’s not a good sign,” she said, quietly.

Whether he heard her or not, Killian said nothing.  He only frowned, and eyed the forest.  The further they walked, the more he kept his eyes on his feet.  He went so far as to close them when he stopped to look up, where the stars still peeked mysteriously through the trees, defying the luminary clock in the sky and the rare light spilling down on the forest floor, telling them it must daylight beyond the canopy.  He only opened them when his neck was craned, his face turned towards the sky, blind to the darkness around them.

“Okay, but it’s not _that_ bad,” she told him.  He looked at her with horrors in his eyes, and she shut her mouth.

Looking ahead, he quirked a brow, eyes narrowing before he startled, seemingly at nothing, and looked back down at his feet, following the ground to hers, then up to her eyes.

“These shadows are unnatural,” he said.  “The trees are... _living_.  There is darkness all around us, closing in.”  He paused, eyes wide and shimmering.  Then, he guessed, “Mordred?”

Emma shivered.  “Maybe.”

“Do you want to go on?”

“Not really.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, a faint specter of his smile.  “Will you go on all the same?”

“Yes.  Although I am – ”

_Tired_ , she thought, in many voices, alarmed.

“Tired,” she whispered.  “I thought we didn’t sleep?”

Killian stood up straight, quickly, as if snapping to attention.  His eyes widened, though they didn’t lose their sheen.

“We don’t,” he said.  “A trick of the mind.”

“A trick of the mind,” she echoed, mindlessly grabbing tight to his hook when he reached back for her, leading them quickly among the trees.

The trouble was, now that she had thought about it, said it out loud, the tiredness weighed down on her chest, like a stubborn cough.  They walked and walked, but their path became unsteady.  The shadows grew thicker, the ambient noise louder, and unnatural.  

Emma blinked, sluggishly.  A fog began to roll in on the path ahead.  She blinked again, and figures coalesced from nothing, wearing rough, dark robes, walking beside her and Killian, whispering urgently in voices Emma recognized from her own mind.

_The voices of the darkness_ , she realized.

“What the _hell_ ,” she said, slowly, tongue clumsy in her mouth.

“ _Don’t_ look at them,” Killian commanded, moving faster.  Emma complied, looking ahead, where the trees fell down on their knees, reaching down, dark and viscous sap pouring along their fingers, dripping on the ground, swallowing up whatever meager life it touched.  She stumbled, and felt branches scraping at her back.  When she could bear the exhaustion no longer, she fell to the wet, frigid ground, an unnatural sleep rushing like water through her lungs.  The figures around them disappeared in a flurry of fabric and shadow.

_How beautiful_ , Emma thought, hysterically, before she succumbed.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and gratitude to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. And thanks for all your kudos and comments! They make my entire day.

Emma woke in binds, her face half in mud.  Sometime while she’d slept, the forest had grown quiet.  It sounded more like the forests she knew, water trickling along meandering furrows, birds chattering curiously in the canopy above.  Though, the darkness remained, shadows of unknown origin skirting along the underbrush.  But the trees were not quite so monstrous, and the earth – just under her nose, as it were – did not smell quite so strongly of rot.

Even so, as best she could, Emma levered herself off the ground, shuffling to lean against the tree behind her.  The cold sap bled down her back, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.  She looked up at the canopy, and guessed it was truly late afternoon, though the stars still winked silently down at her.  Cygnus was directly above, caught in eternal flight.  Something they had in common, Emma supposed.  She and Killian alike…

_Killian_ , she thought, fear jolting down her spine.  She leaned to the side, looking for him, nearly toppling over.

“ _Killian_ ,” she said.

“Here,” he answered, from around the other side of the tree.  Awkwardly, she wiggled on her behind, moving over its roots, the knots tugging at the scabbard on her belt.

Several things occurred to Emma as she managed to seat herself at Killian’s side.  The first was the fire, neat and contained.  It burned several paces down the gentle slope that began at her feet.  It was the size of a shed, or a small house even, brick and boulder piled at its edges.

_Someone must be tending to it_ , she thought.  

And, immediately, the second thing, that many of the shadows slinking along the clearing’s edge were not in fact shadows, but people, wearing much finer clothes than Emma would have expected, given the nature of the forest in which they lived.

“Your leg is warm,” she said, this being the third, spilling unbidden out of her mouth.  In her frustrated shuffle around the tree, she’d hooked her leg around his and pulled.  Watching the people around the fire, their homes gradually coalescing out of darkness, she’d been too distracted to move it, knee hanging over his.  Though she’d stood close to him before, now she was practically sitting in his lap.  She coughed, embarrassed, and moved to put a respectable distance between them.

“Yours is bloody freezing,” he said.

Emma nodded distractedly.  “So this is where we die, right?”

Killian laughed, startled, humorless.  “Given that we’re no longer in possession of the pieces of Excalibur, I’d say it’s highly likely.”

_This_ was the fourth.  The scabbard, caught beneath her thigh, was clearly empty, the hilt of Excalibur missing.  She would have expected the voices of the darkness to screech at her to find it, to _kill_ whatever poor thieving soul had dared to steal from them.  Yet, they remained quiet, seething, subdued by… _something_.

“Okay, yes,” Emma said, “we’re dead.”

When Killian did not answer, she turned to look at him.  His face, like hers, she imagined, was smeared on the one side, a crust of blackened mud from his temple down to his chin.  Slick with whatever oil made it appear so grisly, it made his expression appear even darker than it truly was.  He sat deathly still, like a frozen facsimile of himself, eyes blazing down upon the people who, apparently, had taken them hostage.  She’d never seen him quite so murderous.

“Killian,” she whispered.

He began to squirm where he sat, his arms straining against the binds curling around his wrists and up his arms.  She called his name once more, and he looked down at her.  His eyes were bright, his irises undiscernible from the rest.  They caught the light like pitch.  When he blinked, they grew darker.  Emma watched, helpless, as a scaly shimmer climbed up his neck, faint but distinct.  He struggled harder against his binds, baring his teeth.

“I don’t intend to die,” he said, in many voices.

“Okay,” she told him, slowly.  

She felt the darkness rise in her as well, the subtle, quiet presence eager to break free.  It urged her to follow suit, to tear first into the binds, and then into the flesh of whoever had done this to them.  Emma refused to indulge, staring hard into the otherworldly eyes of the man before her.

“Then don’t,” she said, simply.  “Let’s go.”

If anything, that made him angrier.

“We _can’t_ ,” he snarled, trying to struggle to his feet.  The web of roots beneath them groaned to life, reaching up to snake around his thighs.  They yanked him back down, unceremoniously.  The Dark One appeared unphased by this, clearly having wrestled with the trees before.

“I don’t _intend_ to die,” he said, again.

He grunted as he wrestled with the binds, though he quieted when two people skirted closer than the rest.  They spoke to one another in hushed voices.  When they noticed he and Emma were both awake, they turned on their heels.  It was almost comical, really, to watch them scurry away.  

All of the dark souls inside of Emma, at least, laughed bitterly.

_Great, now I have to listen to you laugh._

The darkness only laughed louder.  She winced, and looked to Killian, who gazed intently at the mud beneath him, pushing his feet down into the earth.  He began to tremble, and the unnatural shine that had crept over his face disappeared, given over to a pale sheen.  He looked vaguely ill.

“Are you alright?” she said.

Killian sighed, and looked at the fire.  He did not answer her, his jaw clamping shut, his eyes shuttering.  He sat up straight, stone in his posture.  Emma followed his gaze, and saw a hooded figure approaching.  She followed suit, shuffling as close to him as she could.  Fear, ancient and visceral, clawed at her throat.  The darkness spared no time, conjuring vision after vision of all the possible ways she could die.  She ignored them, and they twisted, putting Killian in her place.  Emma began to strain against her own binds, but it was no use.  Powerful magic held them in place, and as the figure approached, it became clear that they were at the mercy of unknown hands, resting on the pommels of the pieces of Excalibur.  The figure was nearly upon them, outwardly silent voices screaming in Emma’s ears.  

They quieted, abruptly, when the blades dropped at their feet, and a woman emerged from the billowing fabric, kind eyes and a well-worn smile.

“Please forgive the precautions, Princess,” she said, hands clasped before her, turning first to Emma, then briefly to Killian, who she did not seem quite as eager to greet.  “...and Captain.”

Emma groaned, head thumping back against the tree behind them.   _First the seer, and now this woman._

“Why does _everyone_ know who we are?” she said.

The woman laughed, softly.  “Years of prophecy precede you.  If you’ll allow my apology, I can take you somewhere warmer.”

Despite the darkness, arresting her need for food or sleep or warmth, Emma sighed at the thought of a warm fire and some dry clothes.

“Prophecy,” Killian echoed, darkly.  “And what _prophecy_ might that be, milady?”

The woman looked at him, and her smile faded, a skeptical expression taking its place.  She stepped forward, and appeared to take him in, from head to toe, lingering upon the mud smeared on his clothes, then for some time on his hook, peeking out from behind his back.  Killian squirmed at Emma’s side, but he did not try to hide.  He looked back up at the woman, his blue eyes oddly warm in the distant light of the fire.

“You seem like a direct man, Captain,” she said, “so allow me to be direct in return.  The prophecy was told by Merlin, before he died.  He said that two hearts tied to darkness would be our savior.  There are few that remain in this place who still believe it.  This is why you are tied, and why it took a great deal of convincing before I could return the blades that bind you.”

Many questions flitted through Emma’s mind, all startled away when the woman leaned down, and reached for the binds on their hands.  At her touch, like the living vines of a tree, they slithered back into the ground, yet another magical curiosity.  Killian wasted no time, snatching the dagger before he leapt to his feet, shoving it pointedly in his sheathe.  He glared down at the woman, fiercely, while Emma took her own half of the blade and came to stand behind him.  The darkness seemed to sigh with brief contentment.

“Who are you?” Killian said, nearly spitting in the woman’s face.  “ _Who_ is Merlin?  And what dark magic is it that possesses this land?”

Emma was impressed by the woman’s composure.  She wondered if it was foolishness, or if it was wisdom, given by age.  The woman smiled, the lines at her eyes and mouth carving deep.

“I am Guinevere,” she answered.

Emma peered over Killian’s shoulder.  “Wait, weren’t you…?”

“King Arthur’s wife?” she said, and Emma nodded, dazed.  “I was, many years ago.  By any account given in Camelot, I’m sure, I perished long ago.  But the truth is that I fell in love with another man, and was soon driven away by Arthur’s single-minded madness.”

Guinevere paused, and looked out into the wood, into some distance that Emma couldn’t see.

“I loved my husband,” Guinevere said, quietly.  “As many kings do, he loved his people more than his family.  It was something for which I admired him.  But in the end, he did terrible things for that love.  When I became pregnant, I knew I couldn’t stay.”

“The heir,” Emma said, stepping forward.  Killian looked at her sharply, but she ignored him.  “There was a seer in the forest, she told us to find the heir.”  She tried not to seem desperate, staying her hands at her side.  “There will be a war if we don’t.  There might be one anyway.  I can’t risk that, I _can’t_.”

Guinevere’s gentle expression at last seemed to wither, taken by a terrible grief.

“I’m afraid it won’t be quite so simple,” she said.  “My daughter has been missing these past two weeks.  I suppose it’s the nature of a prophecy.  I never guessed, when Merlin foretold your journey, that it would not end here.”  Tears welled up in her eyes, Emma’s own desperation mirrored.  “Please, find her.”

Guinevere reached up, fingers resting against her forehead.  The posture of a burdened woman.  Burdened but not broken.  She was quick to compose herself, looking briefly to Killian, the same mistrust twisting her face.

_Perhaps she knows of him,_ the darkness suggested.

Emma huffed.   _Uh, yeah, they already knew we were coming._

_No, dearie, it’s more than that._

She tried not to indulge it, but the thought came all the same, unbidden.   _What, then?_

_You will see.  And then perhaps you’ll know him as we know him._

Emma tried to contain her scowl.   _Hush._

“You asked about Merlin,” Guinevere said.

Killian nodded.  “Aye.”

“He was an advisor to the king, an ancient wizard determined to fix the broken kingdom.  It was he who cast the spell upon this forest to hide my family – and any others that wanted to break free of Arthur’s well-intentioned tyranny – in secret, under a veil of darkness, until the time was right to return.  He bound the power of that spell to his own heart, and to all of ours.  All those who were not born here are tied to this place, unable to leave until the spell is broken.”  She paused, her eyes cast towards the ground.  Then, quietly,  “Before he returned to the castle, he said that his death would mark the beginning of the end of our exile.  That the Dark One would be soon to follow.”

_Spell?_ Emma wondered.

_Whatever pungent magic soaks this place, that’s sure to be the source_ , a voice answered.

_If it’s but a single spell, it must have been borne of incredible power_ , said another.

_You have your sword back, dearie, why not just...take it?  What harm could a little more power do?_

Emma clenched her jaw.   _Shut up._

Killian leaned forward, shadow creeping back into his voice.  She wondered if the darkness taunted him with the same thoughts.  She wondered about his secrets – for he clearly had many – about the forest around them, the quest ahead.  She wondered many things, and it stayed her tongue, what felt like the precursor to madness swirling round and round in her head.

“And what did he say of the _Dark One_?” Killian growled.

Guinevere did not falter.  “That there would be a woman spun from gold, a princess of an enchanted forest, and a man who carried a hook in place of a hand.  And that we should trust them.”

“You have a curious way of ensuring trust.  What _foul_ darkness have you unleashed upon us?”

“Yours,” she answered.

Killian was clearly surprised, Emma as well, and the torrent of voices within grew quiet.  

“Pardon?” he said.

“The magic of this place is that you do not see what _is_ ,” Guinevere answered, “but instead what is inside yourself.  It twists the forest into something terrible...tugs the darkness out of your soul and forces you to confront it.  None with dark intent have ever found our home before.”

“Well that’s…”  Killian wrinkled his nose, and Emma was struck with the very sudden, very _absurd_ desire to laugh, of all things.

“Pretty smart,” Emma offered.

“Merlin was nothing if not clever,” Guinevere agreed.  “There were many who began to doubt him as the years wore on, that you would not come.  I must confess that I had moments of doubt myself.  I was never one to hide, but he insisted this was for a greater purpose than we could know.  He believed in his own prophecy enough to give his life for us.  He cast the spell, and then Arthur, enraged, used Excalibur’s power to bind him to the earth.”

“Bind him to the earth,” Emma echoed, softly.  She thought of the tree in the courtyard of Camelot’s castle, beautiful and broken, fresh with decay, bleeding sweet sap.  Then, louder, “The _tree_.  The one in Camelot’s courtyard.”

Guinevere nodded, and looked down at her hands, wringing the sleeves of her fine robes between her fingers.  “We have all lost so much.  What little hope we have is waning.  My daughter has left – on some unknown quest, no doubt – and given the sparing news from the outside, the kingdom is falling to ruin.  You are our best chance of finding her, of putting it all back to rights.”

_We want to give you your best chance._

Her father’s voice echoed strong and clear, and Emma considered the power of hindsight.  Her younger brother had always wanted to hear stories of her adventures, the life she’d lived in merchant ships and forest groves.  Even _she_ longed for her childhood from time to time, as trying as it had been.  Every memory soaked in sunshine, warranted or not.  And now, another adventure.  She was living yet _another_ story, only this one had already been told, by witches and seers and wizards.

“Do you still wish to find the heir?” Guinevere said, looking hard into Emma’s eyes.

_A choice_ , one of the voices within spoke, a woman.   _How considerate.  But what does this woman care for your life?_

_First they ask you to banish Mordred’s darkness,_ Rumpelstiltskin said, in his grating sing-song.   _How long before they set their sights on yours?_

“ _Yes_ ,” Emma answered, with spiteful vehemence.  “I still wish to find her.”

“Good,” Guinevere said.  “Allow me to give you fresh clothes for your journey.  I have some trinkets that might help you along the way.  I am willing to give you anything that you need.”  She looked to Killian, then, a long and pregnant pause before she said, “Despite the things it is said that you’ve done.”

The darkness grinned, Emma could _feel_ it.

_There we are_ , it hissed.

Guinevere turned to lead them deeper into the village, where many other figures awaited, pacing anxiously around the fire.  But Killian stood his ground, reaching blindly for Emma’s hand.

“Wait,” he said, and Guinevere looked back.  “...the things I’ve done?”

“Merlin also said that I would look upon the face of a man who destroyed his own kingdom,” she answered, slowly.  “Who bathed its courts in blood.  He said that that man would help to _save_ the one we now cherish.  Of this, I was most skeptical of all.”

Guinevere stared into Killian’s eyes with a mixture of curiosity and fear.  Emma expected the darkness to emerge at such a revelation, to turn him back into stone, but his walls seemed to crumble.  Whatever it was that Guinevere claimed to know, Emma felt it wrench something loose.  Clearly shocked, the ordered chaos of his mind began to unravel, spilling into her own.  She saw many things, in no particular order.  A boy sold for profit, a vicious young man spitting fury while a heavy whip fell upon his bare back, the Dark One feeding on useless magic like an addict upon the drink, Killian Jones laying upon the bowsprit of a tall ship with both hands curling possessively through loose rope.

_Destroyed his own kingdom,_ the darkness mocked.   _Mildly put._

_Destroyed,_ Emma echoed.  Her heart thudded painfully.   _Destroyed._

_Now you see him._

When Guinevere spoke, it felt as though it were through a dream.

“Come to the fire,” she intoned, with the voice of one reciting an old lyric, “and I will tell you a tale, of a man named Darkness who longs for vengeance.  Sworn to succeed in his bloody repentance.  Share in his burden, and perhaps he will fail.”

Killian seemed to fall apart at Emma’s side.  She could guess at his torment.  What kingdom Guinevere claimed he had destroyed, she was uncertain.  Emma longed to know.  Despite what the darkness said, as he was _now_ , he didn’t seem capable of such a thing.  The broken pieces of his memories still poured into her mind, but they were barely recognizable, and only marginally coherent.

_It’s going to be alright_ , she thought, in a gentle voice.  Not quite a lie, but neither was it the truth.

If he heard her, it did not comfort him.

“An old rhyme,” Guinevere said.  “Generations have come and gone, but your story remains, passed down to children in song and storybook.  I had thought it was only a legend, sparingly known...I must confess to being wary of a man who could do such a thing.”

She paused, and looked him over once more.  Killian fidgeted, his hand and his hook shaking.

“Despite all of this,” he said, gruffly, “you ignore the past and place your trust in the prophecy of a dead man?”

Guinevere inclined her head, the sort of posture Emma recognized, that of a queen.

“I must accept the past,” she said, “and hope for the future.”

Killian, for all the fury that raged inside of him, seemed to accept that, at least for the time being.  The mess bleeding over into Emma’s mind retreated, like a flood in reverse.  She had never felt quite so lonely, or so confused, just enough pieces of the puzzle of Killian Jones missing to reveal nothing significant.  Just enough there to convince her to trust him, despite everything.

_Who are you?_ she thought, not for the first time.

There was no answer.

“Come with me,” Guinevere beckoned, patiently.  While Killian hesitated, Emma followed, reaching behind her to wrap her fingers around his hook.  

_You would touch a murderer?_ the darkness wondered, cruelly.

_You’re lying_ , Emma answered, petulant.

_Oh, are we?_ it wondered, though she did not answer.

He came to walk beside her, and as his stride grew longer, she watched the man, haunted by the past, disappear.  Shadows coalesced at his feet, and the darkness cracked him open, pouring itself back in.

* * *

Emma tugged at the charm around her neck, the twine that held the stones in place uncomfortable against her skin.  Killian held the other, looking at it through narrowed eyes.  They were dull, seemingly unremarkable pieces of jewelry, but they had been enchanted by Merlin to keep the spell on the forest at bay, tucked away and awaiting their arrival.  Or so they had been told.

Barely half an hour ago, Guinevere had led them to an equally unremarkable cabin at the town’s edge.  A vile sludge had gathered at its steps, clawing up towards the overgrown roof.  Terrible creatures with uneven bodies had dragged themselves along the shingles.  Once inside, Guinevere had wrested a small chest out from underneath the floorboards, ornate filigree written into neatly hewn wood.  The charms had been inside, along with a few other trinkets.  She had left them both with a cauldron of hot water, and fresh clothing, promising to return at the turn of the hour.

“You are far too trusting for your own good,” Killian said, before tugging the charm over his neck, tensing as though it was enchanted to lop off his head.  He blew out a breath when, clearly, it didn’t.  “And yet…”  His eyes brightened, and he looked down at her, one brow quirked.  “…still guarded.  How can that be?”

Emma shifted from one foot to the other, noting how _good_ it felt to have Excalibur back at her side.  She gripped its pommel while she regarded him from beneath her lashes.  Oh, how she longed to ask him just what he’d done, what kingdom he’d supposedly destroyed, how, _when_.  

_Legend_ , Guinevere had said, so it must have been ages ago.  Even so, macabre curiosity tugged at her belly, and she wanted to _know_.  But...though he’d locked his mind away once more, one thought had come through, just after Guinevere had left them alone.

_Don’t ask me,_ he’d pleaded, silently.   _Not yet.  Don’t ask me._

In spite of the darkness, begging her to pry him open, Emma complied, and pretended she hadn’t heard anything to begin with.

“ _Guarded_ ,” she said, at length.  “You’re one to talk, Jones.”

He smiled, blandly.  “Oh yes, do tell me all about myself, _Swan_.”

“I will – ”  She paused.  “Swan?”

“‘Follow the swan of the stars.’  Why, darling, I think I’ve followed _you_ more than anything else.”

_Well, I don’t hate it_ , she thought.

“I hate it,” she said.

Killian’s smile became a little more genuine.  “Liar.”

Emma grumbled, her head lolling to the side.  She wondered if somehow, he’d managed to learn how to spot a lie as she could, or if he was just that good at reading her face.  Both possibilities had her belly coiling up tight.  If it was the former, perhaps she would learn something from _him_...  

She thought of the broken, bloody memories that had spilled into her mind, and, perhaps selfishly, hoped that she wouldn’t.

_Oh, but it would be great fun_ , Rumpelstiltskin suggested.  Emma clamped down tight on his voice, and looked out the window to her right, begging for a distraction.

“Oh,” Killian said, quietly, following her line of sight.  

Where before, darkness had tapped insistently on the window, seeping in through the mortar on the walls, soft light took its place, warm and dappled.  Emma watched as he reached out, palm flush against the glass, fingers splayed wide.  He pushed, and the faint noise from without poured in.  Birds she recognized and ones she didn’t.  Thrushes beating their seeds against stone, water impatiently cutting its way across the landscape.  The familiar lullaby of wind in the trees, insects buzzing in the underbrush, shadows long and cool in the late afternoon.  Scents of childhood, steeped in adventure.  Emma smiled, briefly unburdened.  She stepped forward, into the light, drawn in oblong shapes through the window along the floorboards.

“They work,” Emma said, fingers curling around the charm at her neck.

Killian seemed transfixed by the sight of her hand in the light, watching the dust motes curl in the turbulence, settling on her fingers.  When he looked down at her, Emma realized just how close he stood, the both of them crowding in the meager width of the window.  He smelled of the forest, and of the dry earth smeared down the side of his face and clothes.  A faint touch of magic as well, like the heady precursor to a storm.  The hair on the back of her neck prickled, blood rushing to her face.  He sighed, cool breath on her mouth, and then stepped back, into the shadows.  Two long strides brought him to the center of the room, where the cauldron sat upon a low, wooden table, steam curling up off the surface of the water.

The rest of the room was relatively spartan, though well-constructed.  A tapestry hung from the wall, a rider on a rearing, painted horse.  The fireplace was built from smooth river stone, the hearth from slate.  A table, and delicately crafted chairs, were in the corner nearest the window.  Two lanterns hung from the ceiling, embellished with dark metal and blue glass.  Trappings that reminded Emma she was in the company of a queen and her entourage.

_This will be your home now, duckling,_ Emma’s father would tell her, when she would be moved to a new place, yet another friend or family member missing from their company.

_Home is where you are,_ she would answer, looking from her mother to her father, _pleading_ with them to stay.  Often they would, but not for long.  She wondered if living under the protection of a spell, bound to the lonely reaches of the forest, would have been an improvement on moving from place to place.

“Did you doubt they would?” Killian said.  He stood over the cauldron, his hand gripping the edge, knuckles white with strain.

“What?” she said.

He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, his eyes glassy.

_Are you okay?_ She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud, uncertain whether it would be him who answered, or the darkness.

“That the charms would work,” he said.  “Did you doubt it?”

Emma shrugged.  “Guinevere hasn’t lied to us, that much I know.”

“You trust her?”

“Not really, but that’s not the point.  If they try to hurt us, we can just kill them.”

Killian let go of the cauldron’s rim, his brow climbing on his face.

“I mean…”  She stumbled over her own tongue.

_You know exactly what you mean dearie._

_Yes, Emma, the darkness does not seek blood, but will take it if necessary._

_There’s nothing wrong with that._

“There’s nothing wrong – ” Emma echoed, again taken aback.  “Only if…”

“If they try first?” Killian said.  “Aye, something of a pirate’s code, I think.”

_But it’s not_ my _code_ , Emma thought, desperately.

“But I don’t imagine it’s yours,” he said.  “I – ”

“Bath,” she said.

He tilted his head, confused.  She noticed the tremble in his hand, then, but she didn’t dwell on it.

“We need to, uh…”  She stepped to the cauldron, reaching for one of the cloths draped over the edge.  “…wash up.”

For a moment, it seemed as though he would protest.  But then he shifted from one foot to the other, the dried mud cracking all down the side of his coat, water squelching in his boots.  He cringed, and reached up to scratch at the back of his neck.  Guinevere had left them with spare linens from a drawer in a separate room.  Stockings, shirts, trousers, just enough to get them dry.

“Alright,” he said.  He paused, and smiled down at her.  “I know how you feel about wet socks.”

Emma scoffed.  “Who in this realm _doesn’t_ feel that way about wet socks?”

Killian shook his head, and took the clothes she offered.  He turned to walk into the other room when his hand twitched, and they tumbled to the ground.  Cursing, darkly, he leaned down to pick them up, though Emma beat him to it.

“Are you _seriously_ not going to tell me what’s going on?” she said, looking pointedly at his hand, and then his hook, both of them shaking violently.

He would not look at her.  “There’s nothing to tell.”

“You’re shaking so badly, I’m tired just looking at you.”

Killian frowned, and looked out the window.  The longer he did not speak, the louder the silence grew.  The forest spoke, an ancient chatter that calmed her.  It seemed to agitate him.

“I find…” he said, looking at her.  He hesitated, eyes slipping down her neck, and past her shoulder.  “…I’m at a loss, without magic.”

_What he means to say,_ a voice told her, _is that he’s a worthless addict._

_Hmm, yes._  Another.   _And a foolish one, too._

_First the drink, then the darkness.  However do you put up with him?_

“Shut up,” she said.  Killian looked down at her feet, swallowing hard.  “No…I don’t mean you.  I mean – ”

“I know what you mean.  And I know what they’re telling you.  They’ve told me the same things, for one hundred and fifty years.”

Killian’s hand began to shake harder, his hook following suit.  It clanged against the cauldron, and he jumped.

“Sit down,” Emma said, laying a hand on his chest and pushing.  She reached over and dragged one of the chairs to sit near the cauldron.  Bewildered, he followed her command, and the tremble in his hand and hook eased.  He opened his mouth, his voice catching in his throat when she placed the palm of her hand against his lips, his teeth brushing against her skin.

“Shut up,” she said, not unkindly, reaching with her other hand to grab one of the cloths, dunking it into the lukewarm water.  “I mean _you_ this time.  Your face is _covered_ , and I’m going to help you…”  Emma hesitated, her hand falling away from his lips.  “…if that’s alright.”

She could tell he wanted to say no.  But, like clockwork, his hand and hook, with nothing else to do, began to shake in his lap.  Walking and talking, crashing through the forest with the look of a man who preferred the sea, these distracted him.  But there in the cabin, the dark forest turned to light, waiting for day to turn to night, he trembled, and Emma couldn’t bear it.

“You can say no,” she said, quietly.

He leaned back, and regarded her with wide, searching eyes.  Not for the first time, he seemed surprised by her.  For whatever reason, it must have been the right thing to say.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, yes.”

Killian shuffled in his seat, until he sat like a proper gentleman, knees together, back straight.  He looked past her.  Emma reached out, fingers catching beneath his jaw, pinky brushing against the whorls of his ear.  It wasn’t until her skin was flush against his, his bright blue eyes turning up to hers, that she realized she may have made a mistake.

Emma had known lust, had given over to it on the sea more than anywhere else.  It was burning, but fleeting, and she would wring as much pleasure as she could out of every moment, before moving on.  She had wondered if it was just the nature of her life.  Growing up, she was always moving, and though, after the war, her home had technically stood still, her heart kept running.

But in that moment, holding Killian’s face in her hands, fingers slinking back into his hair, lust was slow to build, cool in the pit of her belly.  The darkness whispered terrible things in her ears – that he was irredeemable, that _she_ was – but she paid them no mind, watching the rigid intensity in his expression drain away.  She wondered that she had not seen it before, that one brow sat higher than the other, that there were flecks of gray among the blue in his eyes.  That stray locks of hair at his temple pointed stubbornly in the wrong direction.  And that his lips were always wet, tongue peeking in and out of his mouth more often than any person she’d ever seen.

“You’re staring,” he said, gruffly.

Emma gripped the cloth in her hand, and brought it up to his cheek.

“I have to look at your face to wash it,” she said.

“You are, as ever, infuriating.”

Killian said it like he didn’t mean it, letting his head fall back until he was looking directly into her eyes.  She glanced down, the chords of his neck pulling tight against the harsh angle.  She dragged the cloth through the mud, flecks falling on his shoulder, and on the floor.  The longer she cleaned, the more he leaned into her, face pressing hard into her hands.  When the cloth grew sodden with mud, she couldn’t make herself pull away, one hand still on his skin while the other gathered clean water from the cauldron.  When her fingers prodded gently at the line of his jaw, dried flakes of mud sticking to his beard, he tilted his head.  In that moment, he almost looked boyish, staring up at her with wonder.

“How could you possibly…touch me like this?” he said, and insisted, “I’m a monster.”  

Emma swallowed.  “I…I don’t think that’s true.”

He seemed both frustrated, and curious.  “Just who _are_ you?”

Emma chewed at her lower lip.  For some time, she did not answer, wiping away the last of the dirt on his face, tossing the cloth on the floor.  At that, he quirked a brow, a flicker of annoyance before he looked back up at her, watching and waiting.

“I don’t really know,” she answered.  “Not anymore.”

Killian’s eyes were full of understanding.  He sighed, and his breath stirred a few loose tendrils of hair that had fallen from her braid.  She figured that was her cue to step back, to allow him to get to his feet, and seek a bit of privacy.

Only, Emma didn’t listen.  It was not lust that guided her hands, as they fell back onto his jaw, but something else, an unfamiliar clench and release in her chest.  She stepped forward, his legs on either side of hers.  She carded her fingers through his hair, and it stood on end.  Only then did it occur to her that she held the Dark One’s face in her hands, tugging at his hair.  She watched as his eyes fell shut, and the burden he carried slipped briefly out of reach.  He was slack in his chair, the darkness quiet for once.

“Do you know?” she whispered.

“Know what?”

“Who you are?”

Killian opened his eyes.  Up close, it was a tragedy, watching the bright, eager blue overtaken by many shades darker, until they were eaten up with shadows.  Her hands fell away, and she stepped back while he stood up and stepped forward, out of the evening light slanting in through the open window, and towards the fireplace.  He grabbed the clothes she’d offered him before, eyes hard on hers as he did.

“I am the Dark One,” he said, and disappeared into the next room.

* * *

It wasn’t until she stepped out of the cabin that Emma thought better of walking out alone.  Many pairs of eyes followed her on her way.  She was used to being watched, by guards and townsfolk and curious passersby, but not with quite so much skepticism.  She tried to ignore them as she wandered.

The town itself – the Isle of Apples, Guinevere had called it – was as beautiful as the name suggested, with Merlin’s spell held at bay by the charm around her neck.  The homes were relatively simple, but they were solid.  Not one stood out as greater than the rest, and Emma figured that said as much about the Isle as Arthur’s displays of grandeur – his finery and his fondness for fanfare, in comparison to the ruin of the towns scattered throughout the land – said about his kingdom.  A fire billowed in the village center, its caretakers diligently circling the flames.  The trees, dotting the alleyways and breaking through the roughly cobbled streets, were bathed in gentle colors.  It was ultimately a magical prison, but a beautiful, expansive one, gilded with silver and fine, stained glass.

Emma was drawn to a well, built beneath a break in the canopy.  Like everything else in the Isle, it was constructed of river stone and hardwood, a wide maw running deep into the earth, judging by the faint echo of the stone she tossed inside.  Raised beds built from oak surrounded it, but the flowers inside were wilting, some of them brown and long dead.  The soil was a mess of petals.  Given the beautiful, natural order of everything else, the beds seemed out of place.

“Those were Merlin’s.”

Emma startled, and turned to find Guinevere standing by the well, gazing sadly down at the mess.

“Even in winter, they bloomed,” she said, reaching down to pick one of the browning petals.  It crumbled between her fingers, catching on the wind.  “When it felt as though we were holding onto our last hope, we still had the middlemist flowers.”

Emma frowned.  “What happened to them?”

“Like the spell itself, they were bound to Merlin’s blood.  With his death, they withered.  It was to be the first sign of the new age for Camelot, of our inevitable return.”  Guinevere looked up through the canopy, at the sky above.  She sighed.  “In some ways, our time here has been like a curse.  Yet now that it’s nearly over, I wish it had been for longer.  Or perhaps that Merlin had been wrong, that he would not die.”

“He was your friend,” Emma guessed.

“He was.  I have lost many friends in this war.  I fear I will lose many more.”

Emma blanched.

_You can never be ready to lose the ones you love, Emma,_ her mother had told her, weary from years of running and conflict, _but you will lose them all the same._

_War,_ she thought, derisively.

Guinevere shook her head, and promptly changed the subject.  “How is your Captain?  He seemed vexed when I saw him last, and not just because…”  She trailed off.  “Now you wander without him.”

_If you refuse to take your answers from the_ Captain _, perhaps you can take them from Guinevere,_ the darkness whispered.   _She’s mortal, it would be simple._

Emma ignored them, and the shadow of Killian’s secrets, hanging darkly overhead.

“He’s the Dark One,” she said.  “Vexation is just a permanent state of mind, I think.”

Guinevere smiled, wryly.  “Do you find the same is true of you?”

“I…”  Emma closed her eyes, bright yellow eddies swirling in the blackness.  “…I’m just tired.”

_Hardly a week and you’re already defeated_ , the darkness mocked.

_That doesn’t bode too well for you, now does it?_

_Face it, dearie, you’re the weakest of us all._

“Aldan said the same thing,” Guinevere said, “before she disappeared.”

Emma opened her eyes, and watched a mother long for her daughter.

“Your daughter’s name is Aldan?” she said.

“Yes.  Her father suggested it, said it meant ‘old friend’.”

“So, uh…who is her father?  I know you said you fell in love with another man, but…”

Guinevere smiled, reaching out to lay her hand on Emma’s shoulder.  “Not Arthur, if you’re worried about that.  And Emma, I have to be honest with you.  It wasn’t prescience that gave me your name.  We suspected who you might be from Merlin’s description.”

Emma leaned back, her brow climbing.  She could no longer resist, curiosity _burning_ at her insides.  “And what about Killian?  You said something about his kingdom?”

Guinevere’s smile faltered.  Only then did Emma notice the ghostly quiet throughout the Isle, as if everyone had stopped to listen.  The silence gave away the swing of the cabin door at her back, the click of Killian’s boots against the steps.  When Guinevere spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper.

“It is an old story,” she said, “in which he was known as Captain Hook…but I’m afraid it’s not up to me to tell it to you.  Rather, I’d like to introduce you to someone, and not for the first time.”

“My ears are burning,” Killian said, darkly.  

Emma turned, schooling her expression.  He wore the same dark coat, but over lighter clothes, bright fabrics that clashed pleasantly against the slick leather.  His expression was shuttered, and just this side of murderous.  Before she could stop herself, Emma reached up and tugged at his ear.  A shock of blue flashed in his eyes, the lines in his face smoothing over.

He pushed her hand away with his hook.  He looked far less irritated than he sounded when he spoke, “Bloody hell, woman – ”

“That’s what my father always used to do when people said that.”  Emma turned to Guinevere.  “Surprising him turns the darkness off.”

“You are just as I remember.”

A familiar voice called from the town’s edge.  Clothed not in the armor that Emma remembered, but in fine leather and soft fabric in place of light steel, wearing an older face, yet the same kind smile.

“Lancelot?” Emma said, quietly, stunned.  He stopped, only a handful of strides away.  His smile fell when he looked hard into her eyes.

“Oh Emma,” he said, “how I wish it wouldn’t have been you.”

His voice reminded her of earlier days, before she was quite so aware that her childhood was horridly unconventional.  When the fact that her bed was under the stars, more often than not, did not leave her yearning for something more.  How her father would run alongside his horse with her astride, attempting to do more than she was ready for, yet mastering it all the same.  When her mother would hold her hand, and tell the story of their wedding by the lake, and weave their bleak history into a tale of grand adventures.

_Is the wee lass going to cry?_ the darkness mocked, their voices all a clashing melody.

_You bet I fucking am_ , she answered, and did exactly that, tears falling hot and fast down her face.  When she ran, Lancelot caught her, lifting her off her feet.

“Little duckling,” he soothed, “Little Emma.  It will be alright.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, again and again.  “I’m sorry.”

For their exile, for their daughter, for the state of Camelot, for taking the assignment in the first place.  And for her parents, for her brother, for drawing Killian out of the darkness, for everything she’d ever seen pour from his mind.

“Gods,” she said, when he sat her down on her own two feet, and when the tears abated.  “That was _ridiculous_.  Your daughter is missing, and I’m just…”  Emma gestured, weakly.

Lancelot smiled, softly, and reached up to straighten her vest, wiping the tears from her face.  “I know of another man and wife whose daughter has gone missing.”

She shook her head, still disbelieving.  “I thought you were dead.  We _all_ did.”

He looked pained, apologetic.  “Aldan was born almost twenty years ago, in this very village, to which I am bound.  When I watched her grow into a beautiful, fierce young woman, I knew the same must be true of you.  I’m sorry I missed so much of your life, Emma.  When this war is over, I don’t intend to miss any more of it.”

There was that word again.   _War._  Emma backed away, and looked to Killian.  She paused when she caught his expression, devastation and grief plain on his face.

_Are you alright?_

His voice was a welcome comfort, deep and soothing.  She nodded, and she could feel him withdraw, back into his cage.

“I wish we did but…we don’t have the time to play catch up,” she said, watching as Lancelot moved to stand at Guinevere’s side, his hand on her back.  “Do you have any idea where Aldan might have gone?  We need to find her, and rally the people of Camelot against Mordred.”

Guinevere’s face hardened.  “Mordred?”

“Oh…”  Only then did it occur to Emma that, in all their haste, they had not revealed that the king was dead.  They certainly did not have any reason to mourn Arthur, but he had still been Guinevere’s husband, once upon a time.

“Arthur is dead,” Killian said, simply.  “I killed him.”

“To save me,” Emma added.  “Mordred has taken the crown.”

Guinevere and Lancelot alike seemed troubled.  Grief, despair, fear, they made for terrible bedfellows.

“The trouble with Arthur’s lineage,” Guinevere said, “is that they do wretched things, and yet are still beloved.  Mordred lost sight of what’s right long ago.  He will engender the love of the people.  If you find Aldan, if we return to Camelot, we may be able to break the cycle, and repair the kingdom, but not a moment sooner.”

“How can we find her?” Killian said.

Lancelot reached for the pommel of a dagger at his side, tugging it from his belt.  Emma startled when he pulled the dagger from the sheath, and pricked his finger.  A thin stream of blood flowed down the arc of the blade.  He allowed the wind to dry it a moment before placing it carefully back in its sheathe, and then in her hands.  It was heavier than any dagger she’d ever handled, the intricate beading along the hilt unfamiliar in her hands.  She tilted her head, and a gust of wind lifted the smell of blood from the dagger, where it wafted into her nose.

Emma made a face.  “Gross.”

Lancelot smiled, faintly.  “That is all you will need to find her.  I’m afraid we can’t tell you where she might have gone.  She loves her people, and the Isle is her _home_.  It seems unlike her to leave.  Whether she went to Camelot, or elsewhere, seeking answers, a way to guard the Isle perhaps, it’s difficult to say.  Only, know this…like you, Emma, she is not the sort to stop when others stand in her way.”

Emma nodded, though she glanced warily at the dagger.  “Well, uh, we can’t…”

“It would take blood magic to follow her trail,” Killian said, slowly, several other voices creeping up in his own.  “We can’t _do_ magic.”

“No.”  She attached the dagger to her belt, beside her own.  “It’s alright.  We’ll find her.”

“ _Emma_.”

“We’ll figure it out, Killian.”

She turned to Lancelot and Guinevere.  The longer she remained in their presence, the harder the darkness worked to twist them in her mind.  Standing there before her, whenever she blinked, the darkness within alternately tore the flesh from their bones, or twisted their desire to help into a wicked self-absorbance.  It was unsettling, and she itched to leave the Isle, to get on their way, to only look upon them again when she’d shed the weight of the darkness.

_If you can_ , it taunted.

“We should go,” Emma said.

Guinevere nodded.  

“We will see you again,” she said, with conviction.  “When this spell breaks, when you find our daughter…we will see you again.”

_I will always find you,_ her parents would say.  So often, it felt like a platitude.  Yet, one that she imagined old friends might like to hear.

“I will always find you,” she said.  

The words felt wrong on her tongue, heavy and undeserved, a legacy she’d never quite lived up to.  She embraced Lancelot, and then, on a whim, she did the same for Guinevere, before turning towards the north, letting the angle of the sun guide her.

“Are you certain that you’re alright?” Killian said, when they neared the town’s edge, and she turned to wave goodbye.

Emma reached down for his hook.  Two spots of color erupted high on his cheeks, and she wondered that, in the wake of so much familiarity here in the Isle, that the cold metal and rounded curve felt more like home than the people she left behind.

“No,” she answered, truthfully.  

Killian sighed, though he said nothing.  She tugged on his hook, and he followed where she led, out of the light cast by the Isle, and back into the darkness.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My never-ending love and appreciation to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. And thank you for your comments and kudos! Warnings for this chapter: Blood, violence

Just as the last light of day spilled over the horizon, Emma sat beneath the crown of one of the Isle’s great, fruit-bearing trees.  The laden branches hung low, and it appeared to kneel in supplication.  Though the spell on the forest could no longer touch her or Killian, it seemed the trees were still in mourning, bent down to look upon the rest of the forest in graceful despair.  They were draped in finery, instead of rags, and the sap that poured from the knots in their flesh was brightly colored, and sweet.  Emma gazed on just such a tree – pale white bark and blood red leaves – her legs folded beneath her.  It seemed sad, but resigned to its fate, and she wondered if this too was a reflection of what she felt inside, or if it was tied to Merlin’s death.

 _Does it mourn for him?_ she thought.

She wondered if, should she stare long enough, it would answer her.

“Watch out below,” Killian called from the branches.  A moment later, a few of the tree’s dark, swollen fruits landed beside her.  She looked at them sharply, and then up at him, unimpressed.

“Couldn’t you just carry them down with you?” she said.

He smiled, theatrically, the sort of smile she imagined could get him most anything he wanted.  She scowled up at him, determined not to smile back.

“Laden down with so much fruit?” he said.  “However would I get down?”

“I don’t know, climb?   _Jump?_  It’s not like it could – wait _no_.”

Killian appeared to follow her command, leaning forward on a thick branch.  It wasn’t even that far to the ground, and though he was clearly joking, Emma startled to her feet, reaching up towards him.  He halted, the merry expression on his face fading back into something with which she was more familiar.  A few more of the fruits fell to the ground, and he climbed gingerly back down through the branches.  He leapt off the lowest, landing before her with a soft thud.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said, quietly.  “I’m only trying to…”

He shook his head, and leaned down to pick up two of the fruits.  They were small, but plump.  She took one from his hand, and squeezed just until the skin broke.  Like the tree itself, it bled a bright red, the juice spilling down through her fingers.  It smelled sweet, and fresh, reminding her of things that grew deep in the wilds of the Enchanted Forest.

“How do we know this isn’t poisonous?” she said.

Killian shrugged.  “I know of few poisons that can stay the Dark One, and none of them come from the forests of this realm.”

“Yeah, but – ”

Like the fool that he was, he took a bite from his own, and swallowed.  She glared at him, and he smiled down at her, again with theatrics.  Red, wet lips stretched over his teeth.  Something low in her belly twisted, and she glared harder.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

He took another bite, and bounced on his toes.  In that moment, he reminded her of her brother, young and carefree.  Smiling so hard that his eyes crinkled up.  Killian looked like anything but the Dark One, wearing a face meant to _comfort_ her, of all things.  It was a farce, Emma knew, but the intent was true.  His bright eyes looked almost purple in the burgeoning starlight, stained red by the otherworldly leaves on the tree above, no sign of darkness.

“Aye,” he said, when he’d eaten the last of it.  Only three bites to the core, a tender little fruit that gushed as though it were harvest time, though it was only just spring.  He licked his fingers, and Emma found herself fighting against the urge to bury her hands back in his hair.

 _Something’s changed,_ a voice said.   _If he worms his way into your heart, how long before he breaks his way out?_

_Love is a weapon, dearie._

_Love,_ Emma scoffed.  She did all she could to quiet them, but they only grew louder, more insistent, offering up all the ways that Killian could hurt her.

_What would your parents think of you now?  Allying yourself with this wretched man._

_He’s destroyed a kingdom, by his own tacit admission.  Surely, he has no love in his heart, only hatred._

_Hatred that’s bound to hurt you._

_Retreat from him.  At least you can be cowards, together._

Emma breathed out harshly through her nose, and closed her eyes.  She _crushed_ the fruit in her hand, and tried to shut out the noise.  She hummed under her breath, recalling a song her crew would often sing during long, sunny days at sea.  Only just the chorus, over and over.  

Until, quite suddenly, the noise dissolved, like the morning sun stealing away the fog.  She felt cool, sticky fingers on her cheek.  Warm, sweet breath washed over her face, stirring her hair and lingering on her lips.  She opened her eyes, and nearly startled again, a shock of blue, tufts of dark hair pulling sideways in the wind.  Often, he seemed to be made of stone, pulled from the earth, liquid obsidian, fashioned to drag the world down with him.  Yet here, standing before her, his eyes leaping back and forth between her own, falling to her lips when she blinked, he was only flesh.  She listened, hard, with her magic, and could hear his lungs expanding, his tongue gliding over his teeth, before he smiled at her as though nothing was at stake.

“I’ve heard surprise turns the darkness off,” Killian said, quietly.  His hand lingered, and he tilted his head while he followed the path her tears had taken an hour or so ago.  He drew his fingers along her cheeks, and she wondered if the tracks remained, or if he merely wanted to touch her.

“Yeah,” she said, too stunned to speak in earnest.  “I, uh, crushed the fruit you gave me.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s no trouble.”  He stepped back, and bent down, reaching for one of the others.  He placed it gently in the palm of her hand.  “Grace fails us even at the best of times…doesn’t it, Swan?”

Emma gave him a _look_ in response to the name, though she said nothing.  Without a second thought, she bit into the fruit.  It was sweet, a little sour.  The skin was soft, like that of a peach, though the flesh was blood red.  She threw the core beside his when she was finished, feeling oddly refreshed, though it satisfied a hunger that was not really there.

“Thanks,” she said.  “Sorry about…you know, being so testy.”

Killian quirked a brow.  “I don’t think you should ever apologize to me, Emma.  I’m sorry that you had to leave your friend.  I’m sorry that this task we’ve undertaken grows more difficult with every step.  I’m sorry that the darkness…”  He sighed, and the young, almost cavalier attitude he was wearing melted away.  Bright eyes darkened, and an unburdened face grew weary.  “…well it always survives, doesn’t it?”

Emma looked away.  When Killian sighed, she could still feel it on her face.

“So,” he said, pausing until he caught her eye.  “Where to, your highness?”

“You have a say in this too, you know.”

“Aye, but darling, I fear it’s _you_ who has more to lose.”

Emma frowned.  “Just as long as _you_ don’t lose the darkness, right?”

Killian looked down at his feet.  Decades of sorrow seemed to well up, and she watched as the darkness began to take back its hold on him.  Emma sighed, and felt chagrined, though a part of her couldn’t bring itself to regret what she’d said.

 _He came with you because he was worried for_ him, she reminded herself.   _Not out of any nobility._

Rumpelstiltskin tittered.   _Yes, more of a rat than a Dark One._

_You, shut up._

“That was the deal,” he said.  He lingered on the word _deal_ with distaste, his lips curling back over his teeth.  It was incredible to Emma, his capacity to become many different men in the span of one day.  She remembered his insistence, again and again – _I am the Dark One._ – and wondered if that was just one of the prices he paid for the things he’d done, warring with the darkness over who he was.

“What do you want to do?” he said, at length.  

He wouldn’t look at her.  Last light had faded, and the stars were shining brightly.  He stepped out from beneath the branches of the tree, and looked up.  Emma followed his gaze, and remembered the great arcs of magic in the sky that she had seen through his eyes, the threads that moved the realms.  When she looked hard enough, they began to shimmer faintly in the sky.  They were just as quiet and coldly beautiful as the stars, though they offered no guidance.

“What if we sought out the wizard?” Emma said.

Killian scowled, darkly.

“The heir of Camelot is the key, Emma,” he said.  “If this wizard is truly as far north as the seer suggested, it would be a fool’s errand, and a terribly long one at that.  Better to find the heir first, as you said.”

“Yeah, but we have _no idea_ where she is.  Maybe that’s where the wizard comes in.  He can help us find her.”

“And he will _surely_ demand a price.  All magic does.  If we seek out this wizard, and he demands more than you are willing to give, then what are you left with?  Better to cast a locator spell on the dagger, and try to outrun Mordred, than to waste your days in the company of wizards, of _thieves_.”

“ _Thieves_?”

Killian inclined his head, an arch expression on his face.  He looked over his shoulder, and was drawn to a sluggish stream that cut around the base of the great, bone-white tree.  There along the water’s edge, he paced in tight circles.  He looked down, clearly agitated, his fingers digging into his neck as he stared hard at his reflection.  Curious, Emma followed him, and did the same, watching with grim fascination as several figures appeared behind them.  But when she turned around, no one was there.  Killian did not appear to be surprised by this.  He sneered at the water, and turned back to the sky.

“This is getting really frustrating, you know,” she said.

“ _What_ is?”

“ _You_ are.  It’s like you only ever let me know one part of you at a time, and you never tell me which it is.  You clearly have some kind of history that’s affecting this quest, and yet – ”

“That was ages ago, Swan, and you heard it yourself, it’s _legend_ , it could only affect the ancestors of those alive today.”

Emma growled, her nails digging into her palm.   _Don’t ask me_ , he’d begged.  She asked him anyway –

“What _happened_?”

“ _I_ happened.  Must you know all the gory details?”

“If I’m going to spend day and night with you, then _yes_.”

“You’ll have to _take_ it from me,” he snarled.  An unnatural shadow enveloped his face, and he stared at her through a fog, bright eyes breaking through.  “You’ll have to _tear_ it from my mind.  Enter if you can, but don’t expect to be able to leave.  I never could.”

“You think I’d do that to you?”

“That bloody seer certainly did.  And she was not the first.  But I suppose I cannot blame them.  There is clearly something about me that predisposes itself to being violated, to being _owned_.”

Emma could only stare up at him.  It was clear that, at several points in his long life, he’d been broken open, and now he waited, as if she was capable of doing the same.

 _Aren’t you?_ the darkness wondered.

_He hides in a gilded cage, because without it, he is nothing._

_Own him, Emma, and then perhaps you can be free._

She bit down her tongue, and could taste the blood flooding into her mouth.  When she breathed, the air felt warm, and smelled of copper.

“That’s not true,” she said.

Killian shook his head.  “There is nothing you can say that will make this any better.”

Emma wanted to scream.  She wanted to rage at him, and the darkness that had taken him, in equal measure.  She reminded herself that he had taken it upon himself, that he was built from many pieces, most of which she did not know.  He was like no one she had ever met.

“You still owe me two questions, you know,” she reminded him.

He looked down at his feet, curling in on himself.  “Aye.”

“New rule.  You can choose not to answer them.”

His brow climbed, lost beneath a thick lock of his hair, turned over in the breeze.

“But then they don’t count,” she said.

To her infinite relief, he smiled, hardly a quirk of the corners of his mouth, but a smile all the same.

“You can’t change the rules in the middle of a game,” he said.

“Watch me.”

He nodded, absently, halfway in darkness, half in the light.  He twirled the rings on his fingers, he shuffled on his feet, he tugged at his ears, all manner of distractions.  When he began to chew on his bottom lip, she reached out to stop him, grabbing onto the sleeve of his coat.  As ever, the runes flared.  When he looked at her, they flared brighter still.

“Okay, so be honest,” she said.  “Why do you trust the seer and not the wizard, whoever he is?”

“Wizards are not to be trusted,” he answered, slowly.  “You never know from whence they came, who they truly are.”

“Okay, well, I _still_ think we should go.  What, are we just going to use blood magic, and put Mordred on our trail?”

To Emma’s surprise, his face crumbled, and he _pleaded_ with her.

“Emma, _please_.  There are several purveyors of magic in the north, and none of them can promise you any good.  It is a wasteland.  In all of my travels, never have I encountered a place more desolate, more punishing.  I will help you find the heir, but I cannot help you find what you seek in the north.”

“So, what, you’d just leave?  After everything that’s happened?”

He seemed frustrated, reaching up to tug at his hair.  “Bloody hell, Emma, _no_.  I wouldn’t.”

“But you just said – ”

“I know what I said!” he shouted.  His voice rang clear.  A few skittish animals startled, faint _plops_ heard up and down the stream, where they sought cover beneath the water’s surface.  He sighed, and continued, quietly, “I only meant…it should be a last resort.  Mordred’s power will grow, while we travel the realm on foot.  How much time do you think we have?”

“Not much,” she admitted.  

Emma reached down, and fiddled with the pommel of Excalibur.  As much as she hated to admit it, he was right.  She had a choice, to cast the spell, and take their chances, or to spend ages traveling to the north, so far that nothing grew, starved for light and warmth.

The darkness suggested a third.   _You have no obligation to these people.  You didn’t start this war._

She huffed.   _But I’m going to end it._

“So,” she said.  “Blood magic, then?”

The darkness recoiled.

Killian nodded.  “I suggest that we – ”

“Get far enough away from this place that Mordred doesn’t catch on to Merlin’s spell, the location of the Isle?”

“Aye, and – ”

“We should go north, in case we _do_ have to seek out the wizard.  If we have to backtrack…well, that’s life.”

“I wonder that I ever speak at all in your presence.”

Emma smiled.  It felt wooden, fleeting, dissolving quickly into darkness.  And then, turning up through the trees, along the sloping path, so did they, their path decided.

* * *

“The Isle of Apples,” Killian said.  “Seems much more appropriate now.”

Emma agreed.  It had been several days since they left Guinevere and Lancelot behind at the village.  The forest was awash in more and more color the longer they walked.  The great, mourning trees near the town’s edge had given way to the smaller, gentler sort, bearing familiar fruits.  The mighty oaks had leaves of red or orange or yellow.  It must have been magic, for it was still early spring.  Travelling for so many days, with no rest, the earth and air began to change, the nights growing longer and the sun slanting lower in the sky.

As they walked, several meadows began to open alongside the streams, sodden ground flush with reeds.  Willow saplings bent over the water.  They looked like young women letting out their hair, the leaves as red as cool fire.  The morning light led them from there through a thick glade of apple trees.  Emma admired them, and though Killian offered to climb them as he had before, to reach the very best of the very oldest trees, she refused.

“I’ve never really liked apples anyway,” she said.

“A terrible coincidence, then, considering this forest, this Isle of Apples, never _ends_.”

“You’ve lived a thousand years, and yet you can’t stand a couple weeks of walking in the forest.”

“I’ve lived less than _half_ that,” he corrected, unnecessarily.  Killian stopped in the very center of the glade, where the whorl of trees appeared to converge.  A knot of mossy roots jutted out from below the earth, and he leapt on it, contemplating an overripe apple that hung right before his eyes.  “These apples appear to be unaware of the season.  Hardly planting time, and these are all inedible.”

“Which is irrelevant to you.”

“Just because I won’t die without it, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”

He looked at her and, absurdly, his brow _wiggled_.  He was teasing her, or flirting with her.  Emma laughed, softly, and, before she could second guess herself, laid her hand on his chest and pushed.  He stumbled off the knot, the most graceless thing she’d ever seen him do.  He looked caught between offense and laughter, surrendering to the latter when she smiled at him.

“Leave the fruit alone,” she said.

“As you wish.”

Killian had been quiet through the night, which puzzled her now that he seemed almost cheery.  There was something farcical about it, a mask he wore.  One that peeled away in darkness.  It seemed to her that he didn’t like the dark, but that he loved the stars.  Emma had caught his eye several times after the moon set, when the shadows had grown thick and acrid.  He’d look at her like he wanted something, and then look away.

She wondered if he was afraid she would ask him about his past, where he had lived, where he had worked, about the tattoo on his arm, about the legacy he’d built.

_You’ll have to take it from me._

The darkness still prodded at her to do just as Killian had goaded.  He walked beside her, through tufts of tall grass, the fabric of his coat swishing softly, his face turned towards the light.  It cast harsh shadows beneath his hair, under his nose.  It glinted off his hook.  All at once, he looked boyish, yet capable of the things that legend said he had done.

 _The dichotomy of a worthless Dark One,_ one voice said.

_At least his early days were not quite so fruitless._

_Not quite so bloodless either._

Emma startled.   _What?_

_Well you’ll have to ask him, now won’t you, dearie?_

Oh, how she wanted to.  But Emma ignored them fastidiously, while she watched Killian walk ahead of her, drawn to a little body of water in the glade, a living mirror.  She waited apprehensively, for him to see something terrible, for his face to twist back into a monster.

“Why are you always going to the water?” she said.  “Don’t you…you know, see scary things?”

“From time to time,” he answered.  “Not enough to convince me to stop.”

Emma stepped beside him, and gazed down into the pool.  Their reflections stared back up.  The darkness stirred restlessly inside, but did not appear in the water.

“Why?” she repeated.

He sighed.  “Is this one of your questions, Swan?  Your last one, as I recall.”

“Are you going to keep calling me Swan?”

One corner of his mouth twitched.  “Follow the swan of the stars.”

He did turn to look at her, then, his face close enough to touch.  It was curious, she thought, how her skin still prickled where she had touched him in the village, days ago.  How, as they walked among the trees, her fingers curled, remembering the shape of his jaw.  Among the magic, and the intrigue, the threat of war, seeking a young heir to rebuild a kingdom – all of these things, and yet all Emma wanted, in that moment, was to draw him back to her.  She imagined what it would be like, how he would look at her.  If the Dark One would step between them, or if they would be cowed in the face of Emma’s desire.  She wondered if it was merely a distraction, for when she thought of him – of the shape of his mouth and hand, the natural color of his eyes, the way his skin had felt against her cheek – the voices of the darkness were oddly silent.

“I had a brother,” Killian confessed, quietly, after some time.  “He was my captain, and I was his lieutenant.  Before and after his death, I lived upon the water.  As long as I tread the sea, through several lifetimes, she never betrayed me.  Even in storms, she was always a comfort.   _That_ is why I go to the water.”

“This isn’t the sea,” she said, gesturing at the pool.

“All water becomes the sea.”

She nodded, though she wasn’t quite sure if it was true.

“I have a brother,” she said.

“So you’ve said…”  He looked curious, hesitantly so.  Emma waited.   “What…what’s he like?”

She smiled.  “He looks like my mother, but he acts like my father.  He always has this sly expression on his face, like he knows more than he does.  He’ll be twelve this summer, and he’s already more suited for the crown than I ever was.”

“I wouldn’t be quite so sure.”

“ _I_ would.  His name is Leopold – ”  Killian grimaced.  “ – yeah, I know, my father hated it.  But not so much anymore.  I’m his duckling, and Leo is his little lion cub.  He likes the animal metaphors.”

Killian laughed, quietly.  “Clearly.”

“I used to resent him,” she admitted.  “But then I realized, that’s how it’s supposed to be.  Things are supposed to get better.  He plays more than he should, and curses like a fucking sailor.  He prefers the forest to the sea…”  Emma sighed.  The last she had seen him, he had hugged her goodbye, demanding she bring him back a new pet, something he’d never seen before, all while their mother and father shook their heads vehemently behind him.  “He’s perfect.”

“So was mine.  And yet – ”

“Annoying.”

“Pigheaded.”

“He never shuts up.”

“He was stifling, ordering me about.”

She tilted her head.  “I can’t imagine that.”

He looked surprised.  “Truly?  You’re worse than he ever was by spades.”

Emma opened her mouth to protest, when a bright shock of plumage arced just over his head, and landed on Killian’s shoulder.  She blinked, recognizing the species, the individual even, a scuff on its beak, and a little leather strap around its leg.  She gasped, and smacked Killian’s arm, just where the sleeve of his coat met the shoulder, her fingers digging into the leather.  The little bird leapt from her perch, fluttering before landing back on her fingers.  She broke out in a familiar song.

“Ow,” Killian said, and looked down at the bird.  “What the bloody hell is this?”

“It’s a bird,” Emma answered.

“Aye, I do indeed recognize _birds_.  But – ”

“She’s one of my mother’s.”

Killian’s eyes widened, and he stood still, watching as Emma curled her fingers, the way her mother had taught her, and brought the bird to eye level.  It sang on, unperturbed.  Emma imagined she had flown for days and days, over sea and land.  Her sleek feathers glistened, clearly under the influence of some sort of magic, likely blood magic, so that it could find her.

“Regina,” Emma whispered.  If only the bird had brought some more.

“There’s something on its leg,” Killian said.

“Yeah, probably a message…”

She bit down on her cheek, hard.  Moisture flooded her eyes.  It was easy to pretend, when it was just she and Killian, that she was living in a half-dream, wandering through nightmares.  The connection to her parents made it seem _real_.  Emma swallowed, and pulled the little tube from the bird’s leg.  She grabbed Killian’s hook, and the bird stepped easily from her hand to the blunt curve.  Curious, she pecked softly at it, a tinny _ping_.  Clearly enchanted, Killian grinned.  A flash of teeth, disappearing quickly when he looked back at Emma.

“What does it say?” he said.

Emma’s fingers trembled, so much so that she could hardly free the parchment from its parcel.  When she did, she unrolled it, slowly and carefully.  The message inside was written in a familiar shorthand.

“Dearest Emma,” she translated, a lump in her throat.  “Word has spread throughout the kingdoms.  King Arthur is dead, and Camelot claims that you and one other are responsible.  August and Josephine explained what truly happened, but our kingdom’s hands are officially tied.  We know that you traverse the wilds of Camelot, but we do not know why.  Neither do we know why you trust the man who did kill the king…”

Emma glanced up at Killian.  He frowned back at her.

“I’m glad you did,” she said, and his expression softened, marginally.  She turned back to the parchment, flipping it over.  “…but we do trust you, duckling.  War, it seems, is inevitable, but we care for you, first and foremost.  Return this parchment, and unofficially, we will give you whatever it is that you need.  We love you, and know beyond doubt, that you will always find us.  Signed, your loving mother and father.”

Emma’s lower lip quivered, and she bit down into the flesh.  She looked up at Killian helplessly.

“I don’t have anything to write with,” she said, mournfully.  One stubborn tear escaped, and she swiped it away.

“And you said light magic wouldn’t be useful,” Killian scolded, not unkindly.  “Just rearrange the ink.”

Emma frowned.  “I – ”

“ – can do it, Swan.”

“You really think so?”

Killian smiled, though he looked sad.  “I would not say it if I did not think it were true.  You would know.”

Emma flushed, and turned back to the parchment.  She held her breath, and pressed her fingers against the ink.  The darkness squirmed, thrashing in its cage.  The light lay buried deep within, lost in the fog.  She reached for it, desperately, and breathed out, just as the ink began to swirl on the page, writing back with only as much detail as she dared.  It was messy, but readable, and she tucked the message back at the little bird’s leg, still singing away on her perch, talons clasped tightly on the smooth hook.

“My _ship_ ,” Emma said, sorrow snapping into anger.  “There’s a town on the northern coast called Weir.  It should be no more than a few days from here.  I want my ship back.”

Killian quirked a brow, clearly impressed.

“I _told_ you I studied the coast.”

“Won’t they recognize her?” he said.

“ _Him._  And no, he was built in the Enchanted Forest _._  The wood is just as enchanted.”

“Him,” Killian echoed, and shook his head.  “Is that all you asked for?”

“Do you think we ought to ask for anything else?”

He stepped closer, his boots nudging hers.

“Follow the swan of the stars,” he said, prophecy turned to litany.  “You do what you think is best, Swan.  I’ve been alive far longer than any man should have to be, yet I could not pretend to know the world as you do.  I’ve been away from it for too long.”

She flushed, and looked back down at the bird, reaching out to stroke at her feathers.  Her song became softer, and she leapt to Emma’s fingers.

“Go home, little bird,” she said, feeling bereft, even before she was out of sight.

 _Goodbye_ , she thought.  Killian’s hook fell back to his side, and he watched the sky until it was empty.

“Goodbye,” he said, and reached down for her hand.  His rings, cold and sharp, bit into her skin, but his flesh was warm and soft.  Emma sighed, and wondered if that creature was the last she’d ever know of her parents.  She closed her eyes, and squeezed Killian’s hand.  Ever an enigma, light and dark, man and monster, he squeezed back.

* * *

“Quite a burden for one so small,” Killian said, well into the afternoon.  When Emma blinked up at him, he clarified, “The bird, I mean.”

Distracted, all she said was – “Oh.” – while she silently contemplated him, wondering if he’d meant what he’d said.  Again and again, he would tell her, _Follow the swan of the stars._  He reminded her whenever they spoke, if not so explicitly, then by looking her in the eye and calling her Swan.

 _Why would anyone follow you?_ the darkness wondered aloud.

 _Especially with all these irritating voices in my head,_ she spat.

“I’m pretty sure she was enchanted,” Emma said, at length.  “Just something to keep her from getting tired.”

Killian only hummed.

“Have you really been thinking about the bird all this time?”

“No, not as such.”

He didn’t seem keen to elaborate, so Emma needled.

“Then what _have_ you been thinking about?” she said.

Killian looked down at her, as though surprised she had asked.  He hesitated.

“Only that…the greatest burdens often fall on those who least deserve them.”

Emma stepped closer, and craned her neck to look up at him.  He nearly tripped over a fallen branch, and looked away.

“Like you?” she said.

Abruptly, familiar shadows crept back into his eyes, and they appeared to sink back into his skull, his skin growing sallow.  His hook glinted dangerously in the low slanting light, and he dragged it against the bark of the trees as he walked along.

“You’ve no _idea_ what I deserve,” he said, in many voices, all of which she recognized.  Emma allowed herself to sag when he pushed on ahead.

 _If you won’t take him,_ the darkness said, _then we will._

They walked until night had nearly fallen.  Killian refused to speak a word, pouring over the landscape like sluggish water.  It reminded her of the second time she had seen him, thundering through Arthur’s castle.

It was only a marginal relief when the brilliant colors of the Isle began to fade, when what felt like summer bent back over into spring.  Cold air bit powerlessly at her face, and the young, green leaves of the deciduous trees curled inwards.  Little flowers peeked hesitantly through the earth.  Emma longed to leave the strange forest behind her, tired of walking, tired of thinking, tired of waiting for Killian to rise and fall like the tide.  He trembled even as he walked, like a broken machine.  Another hour, last light painted blue against the horizon, and Emma led them to the banks of a sandy stream, half in hope that the water would calm him.

It did not.

“We can cast the spell here,” she said.  He nodded.  “Uh, we need a map.”

Killian drew his dagger from its sheath, and stepped towards the sand.  She peered over his shoulder as he crouched down.  Water pooled at his feet, seeping from the sand.  He looked up at the stars.  Emma watched, and carved him in high relief, there in her mind.  When he leaned back down, for just a moment, she was certain he would crack in two.

“There you are, Princess,” he said, after some time.  He stepped away, and there at his feet lay a crude map of the realm.

Though…she moved closer, and found it wasn’t very crude at all.  She recognized the jut of three of Misthaven’s largest ports.  The town to the north, Weir, situated along the innards of a small cove, was also visible.

“This is…really nice,” she said, impressed.  Emma drew out Aldan’s dagger from her side, the jewels, the weight, the curve, all uncomfortable in her grasp.  But she gripped it hard all the same, hovering over the map.  She hesitated.  “Shouldn’t you be doing this?”

He scowled, and his hook trembled.

“Trust me, darling,” he said, “you don’t want me to touch dark magic.”

 _Are you alright?_ she thought.  She knew it would do no good to ask, so she turned back to the map, shuffling nervously on her feet, licking her lips.

 _We’ll do whatever you ask,_ the voices taunted.

_Yes indeed, dearie, just say the word._

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, loud and long.  Emma considered putting the dagger away, _insisting_ that they seek the wizard.  But she had already called on the darkness, and it began to rise.  The light within flickered, growing dim.  Emma had used the darkness before, but now that it knew her, it crawled between her broken pieces, wrenching them open.  It began to seep out of her skin, twining down her arm, and around the ornate dagger.  The blood, long dried, grew warm and red.  The magic _burned_.

And yet, it felt _good_.  Rushing through like a balm to her ills, singing in her blood.  All of the turmoil faded, a pleasant numbness everywhere she prodded.  Emma watched Lancelot’s blood drip down to the sand, power pushing it along its track.  The magic crested within, and she wondered why she had ever held back.

 _Yes, good,_ they said.   _Keep going._

The blood wound its way around and around, before arcing back up through the sea.  Before it even came to a stop, Emma _knew_.

“The northern islands,” she said.  Killian took a step forward, nearly crushing the map.  His jaw jumped, again and again.  The droplet stalled, and they both leaned over it.  She, to commit it to memory.  He…well, he’d made it no secret that he despised the wizards of the north.

“There she is,” Emma said.  She breathed in, and breathed out, the taste of something sickeningly sweet filling her mouth.  She licked her teeth, rolled her tongue, and found nothing.  “We should go.”

“No,” Killian said.

“ _No_?  Do you _want_ to be caught?”

“No, it’s not _possible_.  This place...she’s travelled west of the frozen village.”

Emma recalled the words of the seer.  “Oh gods.  She’s gone to see the _wizard_.”

“Aye...perhaps.”

 _Two birds with one stone_ , she thought, and then shook her head.  They didn’t have _time_ to linger.  Killian lingered beside the map, and made a harsh noise of protest when she kicked it over and over, until no sign remained.  Darkness began to pool in Excalibur’s scabbard, burning through the leather and dripping to the ground.

“Killian!” she shouted, when it seemed he might stay behind.  He startled when she grabbed his hand.  Emma tugged, until he was running alongside her.

Emma didn’t have to see the portal to know that it was behind them, the terrible sound of rock grinding through soil.  She ran as hard as she could, but soon, heavy, clanking footsteps followed.  She knew the soldiers would grow tired eventually, and that she and Killian would not, but still her heart seized.

“Ah, Princess Emma!” Mordred called.  

Emma allowed her feet to carry her to the east, through a thicket of honeysuckle.  The branches scratched against her face.  Killian grunted beside her, but he did not falter.

“So kind of you to call over,” Mordred said, his voice slightly more distant.  Tall, and wearing heavy armor, she imagined he would be the first to fall behind.  But other feet still kept pace.  “Your parents didn’t take too kindly to the last letter I sent.  I suppose demanding your _head_ as the only condition for amnesty was a bit much.”

Emma tried to detach herself, she _tried_.  But the darkness still sung through her blood.  Power like she’d never felt, demanding to be released.  She halted, and turned, four soldiers nearly upon them.

“Emma, no!”  Killian shouted, and grabbed at her hand, urging her along.

She wondered if the darkness, in all its might, had some measure of control over time as well.  For it all ground to a crawl when one of the soldiers, a wicked gleam in her eye, drew a throwing dagger from her belt.  Some kind of dark magic poured from its tip, and Emma watched as it tore through the air, severing a young, tender branch from a shrub before missing her by the width of a hair, and sinking deep into Killian’s back, between his ribs.  She knew they were immortal, that mortal weapons would do them no harm.  But these soldiers and their weapons smelled of the same magic that Mordred commanded through the charm around his neck.  Killian cried out, a terrible sound, long and sharp.  

The darkness within, quick and menacing, demanded a price.  Emma obeyed, and gave herself over to it, sweeping her hand violently.  The four soldiers, their bones twisted, a sickening noise as they collapsed in towards their tender, mortal flesh.  They fell, and before they even hit the ground, Emma came back to herself, and watched in horror as blood began to pool beneath them.

 _Run,_ the darkness commanded.  Killian panted at her side, and fell to his knees, tears leaking out of his eyes.  Mordred approached, his heavy footsteps drawing near.  Without the time to consider whether or not the dagger should be removed from his back, Emma grabbed Killian’s hand, dragging him to his feet.  He _screamed_ , in so many voices, it pierced the canopy and echoed through the sky.

Even so, Killian followed, and with unnamable terror at their heels, they did as the darkness commanded, and ran.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal love and thanks to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. And thank you for your comments and kudos! They keep me going. Warnings for this chapter: Blood, violence

Emma tried not to look at him, and she tried to shut him out.  

She imagined the darkness might taunt her, tempt her to leave him behind.  But it only thrashed against whatever magic coated the dagger in Killian’s back, the sensation scraping against her bones.  The voices keened loudly in her ear, a mournful sound that nearly brought her to her knees.  She knew, if she fell, neither of them would get back up.

Though they’d lost Mordred in the dark, his footsteps growing faint before falling away altogether, she still ran, and tugged Killian along behind her.  The careful, iron wrapping he kept around his mind began to unravel, and an echo of a deep, searing pain poured into her veins.  It crashed over her in waves, and when it crested, she couldn’t help but to glance at him.  His face was deathly pale, and the whites of his eyes were red as blood.  He rambled in languages she did not recognize, and cried out whenever the land knotted up, falling hard on his feet, the bones and sinew in his back rending in two.  

But still he went on, his grip on her hand unyielding.  A quiet, spiteful strength that lived in him reared up, and pushed him forward, hours and hours and _hours_ creaking painfully by.

Eventually, the virgin forest gave way to one much younger and disturbed, stumps and saplings clear signs of a nearby civilization.  The vegetation began to clear, and the streams coalesced into one mighty river.  It arced up to the north and spilled into low marshlands.  A great, rounded cove bit into the land, sandy, half-submerged grasses sloping down towards a glittering swath of water.  Shacks, manors and minor castles rose along the water’s edge, growing more elaborate from the southern to the northern shore.  Warm candlelight, faint through the windows, and bright in the lampposts, chased away the darkness.  At the sight of the town of Weir, Killian let go of her hand, and fell to the ground.

“Emma,” he pleaded, in many voices.  “ _Swan_.”

Another wave of pain crashed over the armor he’d built within.  She gritted her teeth.

“We have to keep going,” she said.

“I – ”  He panted, and shook his head.  Sweat and tears poured down his face, dripping from his chin.  “ – I can’t.”

“Too damn bad,” she said, and reached down to hoist him up.  Skin and muscle stretched and tore, and he cried out.  She shushed him, but still he whimpered, pitiful noises that he hid in her shoulder.  

Emma led them to the ruins south of town.  To ancient, crumbling castles, long past their usefulness, half-sunk into the marsh and surrounded by warped, wooden pathways.  They were grown over, largely concealed by moss and grass and vine.  She considered sneaking into the town proper, and bartering for shelter and discretion.  But, she reasoned, Mordred was likely to have loyalists scattered throughout Camelot.  So instead – his breathing shallow, his pain unbearable even to _her_ – she dragged Killian to a nearby tower keep.  It was like a mound jutting above the waterline.  The stone was covered in desiccated sea creatures, and tidal algae, and it blended into the marsh.  It rested at an angle, a gaping wound in its side giving passage to the upper floor.

“I guess this will have to do,” she said.

Emma stepped down from the walkway and into the water, boots sinking in the fine mud.  She sloshed along, inhuman strength allowing her to pull Killian through as well, pushing the grasses aside and climbing up into the keep.  She did not stop until they came to the next floor, the very top.  She wrenched open the swollen, wooden door, and allowed it to slam shut behind them.  A cloud of debris erupted, reeking of salt and rot.

Whatever restraint Killian had shown as they ran began to waver.  She lowered him to the floor, and onto his belly.  The dagger jutted out beneath his shoulder blade, and he writhed, clawing at the stone beneath him.

“ _Emma_ ,” he said, coughing out her name, blood and saliva gathering on his lips.

“Right, right, okay, let’s just…”  She fell to her knees, and leaned over him, fingers hovering by the dagger.  She hesitated, wondering if more harm would come to him, if she should cut the fabric away from his back before removing it.

But he gave her no choice.

“Get it _out_!” he shouted, over and over.  

Fearing he would draw attention, Emma grabbed the hilt, and yanked.  A terrible sucking noise echoed through the room when she tore it out, blood and flesh arcing and dripping down on his coat.  The hilt, a plain leather wrap, burned her hand, and she threw it across the room.  It clattered down the slope of the keep, leaving a long trail of blood behind.  Killian whimpered, and lay panting.  She prodded at his mind, and found fresh pain still bubbling through.  Whatever magic coated the blade, it must have remained behind.

“There’s still…” he said, trailing off and biting hard on his bottom lip.

She pressed down on the fabric above the wound, warm blood still seeping out, and peered through the slit in his coat.  As she watched, the stray and jagged pieces of leather reached out for one another, winding until they were repaired.  Emma’s hand lay pressed to his spine, and the moment the tear in the fabric disappeared, the runes in the coat flared brighter than ever before, casting the room in brilliant red light.  Briefly enchanted, she realized the light was essentially a beacon, alerting the people of Weir that there were strangers among them.  And, though logic told her she’d left them behind hours ago, paranoia convinced her Mordred was watching, as well as any others she had left alive.

_Oh no, dearie, I don’t think you left any besides.  Perhaps you’ll find the Captain’s code is of use after all._

Emma growled, and bit at the darkness – _Aren’t you supposed to be writhing in pain?_ – as she hastily tore the coat from Killian’s shoulders, down his arms and over his hook.  He protested, weakly, a fresh sheen of sweat coating his face.  The vest and shirt beneath were still torn.  She was frustrated, and angry, and the darkness still taunted her, laughing at Killian’s pain as if it too hadn’t suffered moments ago.  The blade removed, the voices seemed immune, and the Dark One before her became the man, tender flesh on his back throbbing and swollen.

 _He’s not our concern,_ they told her.   _After all, we have you._

Emma had never shut them out quite so violently before.

“I need to get these off,” she said, catching his eye.  He was still of an unhealthy pallor, and his breath rattled in his lungs.  Yet, he smiled.

“It was only a matter of time,” he said, with a suggestive inflection.  She glared at him, with no real heat.

“I could just leave you here, you know.”

He laughed, or coughed, she wasn’t sure which.

“Is…”  She hesitated, imagining the situation in reverse.  “…uh, is that alright?  I could just tear them if you wanted.”

Killian was quiet for a long moment, long enough for her to be concerned.  She reached down and touched the back of his neck, tangling her fingers in the hair curling just behind his ear, damp and curling with sweat.  He sighed, and relaxed, marginally.  His answer, then, surprised her.

“Just cut them,” he said.

_I fear you won’t like what you see._

The thought, in his warm and familiar voice, was quiet, but distinct, leaking through the broken barriers he’d built around himself, crumbling under the weight of whatever foreign magic still seemed to poison his blood.  Emma tried not to react.  Instead, she obeyed, and pulled Aldan’s dagger from its sheath at her side, cutting a generous cross into his vest, and then his shirt.  He tensed when she peeled them away.

“Gross,” she said, before she could stop herself.

He laughed, or tried to, through his teeth.  “Not a fan of blood, are you darling?”

She shrugged.  “I may be used to it, but it’s still gross.”

It occurred to Emma, then, that she was woefully unprepared for this scenario.  No rags, no fresh water.  She tugged his shirt from beneath the waistline of his trousers and tore a clean strip, dabbing away at the blood, but it was hardly adequate.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any alcohol in that magic coat, would you?” she said.

He had been watching her out of the corner of his eye while she worked, watery eyes bright and bloody and vulnerable.  But at the mention of alcohol, he turned back towards the floor of the keep, beard scraping roughly against stone and wet sand.  His eyes fell closed, and he breathed unevenly.

“Not anymore,” he answered.  

Emma sighed, wiping away the dirt and sweat until only the wound remained, seeping fresh, unnaturally dark blood.  Thin black veins, a flesh-deep poison, wound outward from the broken skin, up and over many, ancient scars, roping outward along his back.  Morbidly curious, she lay her hand upon the mess, rough tissue scratching against her fingertips.  He was hot, _burning_ in fact.  

 _Am I about to watch him die?_ she wondered.  

Fear, terrible and mindless, took the place of all else.  Her hands began to shake, and the darkness showed her all manner of things – his wound tearing open, flesh turning inside out, the magic within burning him to a husk, Mordred coming upon them, sentient shadows pouring from cracks in the earth, the sea pulling back from the sands like a curtain, the world folding in half like a map, the stars burning out.  Visions of terror and torment twisted in her gut.  Emma could hear Rumpelstiltskin’s voice, rising above the others, laughing in his own peculiar way.  It was only some measure of spitefulness, and desperation, that allowed her to reach past the darkness, and into the light, where the magic she was born with yearned to heal.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned, and then lay her hand back over the wound.  Light, healing magic reached down to knit the flesh.  Mordred’s dark magic reached back.  Killian’s teeth clenched, and he groaned pitifully, writhing upon the floor.

 _Oh, how far he has fallen_ , the darkness said.  They tested her resolve, screeching in her ear.  But she did not waver, not even when the weakened restraints around Killian’s mind finally gave way, his memories spilling over into hers…

_She had an older brother.  Emma wondered what had happened to Leo, but then quickly forgot the name.  Her father leaned over her, as she lay there in the bowels of a ship.  His face was familiar to her, bright blue eyes and golden hair.  His gentle expression twisted, and darker hair and eyes warbled against light.  An unfamiliar face with a familiar smile looked down at her, lies spilling out of his mouth.  He disappeared, and she leapt out of bed, suddenly much older._

_Emma ran up to the top deck of the ship.  Many faces surrounded her, those who had squirrelled her away when she was young, and those to whom she had been sold._

“Sold?”  Emma shook her head, and bore down on the dark magic.  Killian curled up tight beneath her, and she had to lean on him to keep him still.  The magic began to seep out of the wound, the poison retreating, snaking back over his –

_Scars, fresh and shameful, all across her back.  The whips fell hard against her flesh, and though she knew the memory did not belong to her, it felt real, skin breaking open, and blood pooling at her knees.  The ropes holding her fast fell away, and she turned to find herself deep in the forest that she remembered.  Her brother called her name, but he was not there when she turned, only a man living in the body of a child, unfamiliar trees and mountains clawing their way up through the landscape.  An eternity in a humid jungle, unchanged by the seasons, untouched by time._

“Emma,” Killian whimpered, whether begging for relief, or for her to get out of his mind, she wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t, I _can’t_.”

The last of the magic began to wind out of his flesh, but still it dragged her _down –_

_– and into the water.  When she surfaced, she stepped out upon the deck of an unfamiliar ship.  It was beautiful, sails fluttering in the breeze.  The woman she loved stood at her side.  Time stuttered, and she lay dead in Emma’s arms.  Like many others she had known, their faces twisting together, a ship upon a battlefield, a battlefield upon the sea.  War raged on and on, and all she cared for was killing the man who had taken everything from her.  From sea to palace, from vengeance to sorrow.  Again, she saw the face of her older brother in her mind, and she walked blithely through a broken castle, blood at her feet, the legacy of the king who had sent Liam to his death pleading for their lives.  A tender, beautiful heart lay in her hand, shining in shades of red and gold.  She hesitated, but the darkness reminded her, the vision of her brother’s death spilled forth, and her grip tightened. The heart in her hand turned to dust –_

Emma cursed, violently, in languages she’d never learned.  The magic she’d torn from Killian’s flesh writhed, diffused in the open air, before it withered away, as dust.  Harmless, it drifted down to the floor below, glittering in the pale, morning light.  He gasped, rose to his knees, and the open wound knitted closed.

“Bloody hell,” he said, wiping the sand and grime from the side of his face.  Blood and sweat began to dry on his skin.  “I can tell you this, darling, I’ve never experienced quite so many impossible things in so short a time.”

“Uh…”  Emma blinked, disoriented by the sudden change of pace, his mind wrenching back quickly, coiling up and away from her.  He glanced at her, and flushed, turning back towards the wall of the keep.  He took a deep breath, and before it had left his body, she could neither see nor hear anything that lived behind his walls.  “…sorry?”

Killian reached out, and laid his hand upon the stone, just by the narrow window.  The light caught his rings, throwing luminous shades on his profile.  He looked battered, and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with more conviction.  She wanted to step forward, but his expression warned her away.  She wanted to step back, but she feared he would misunderstand her.  Suspended, she remained where she was, and looked down at the sandy soil shifting beneath her feet.  “I shouldn’t have…”

 _Shouldn’t have saved him?_ a voice said.   _Too late to turn back now._

 _That’s not what I meant,_ Emma insisted.

_Oh, but isn’t it?_

She bit down on nothing.   _No._

“Oh, Emma,” Killian said.  He turned to look at her.  She might have expected him to smile, in false bravado, a shield like any other.  Curiously, he didn’t.  His mind remained a fortress, but the expression on his face was open and changing.  Anger to guilt, guilt to hatred, hatred to weariness, and lingering there.  One corner of his mouth pulled up, and he spoke her name.

“Swan,” he said.  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yeah, but I did exactly what you said.  I tore it from you.”

Killian’s eyes flashed, and the Dark One appeared briefly in his face.  His lips curled back from his teeth.  His eyes were dark, and his voice of an odd resonant quality when he spoke, but the man remained.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said.  His hand began to shake.  “I saw things too.”

Emma swallowed, and longed to ask him _what_.  But then she imagined he might ask what she had seen in return.  She wasn’t sure what it would do to him, to hear fragments of his story – whatever they were, whatever they meant – told aloud, when he’d tried so hard to keep it to himself.  

The silence lingered, and it became clear that he would not tell, and that she would not ask.  She shuffled on her feet, and listened hard for the sounds of the sea.  Heavy, saline water washed along the keep, travelling sluggishly towards the river that emptied into the cove.  Young, spring grasses scratched against the weathered stone.  Loose boards, swollen with age and neglect, knocked together with no apparent rhythm.  Emma closed her eyes.  The darkness prodded at her with manufactured hatred and suspicion.  When it knocked impatiently at her heart, she refused it, and opened her eyes.

“We’ll need supplies,” she said, hoarsely.

 _I need a distraction,_ is what she meant.  She took a deep breath, and began to pace meanderingly throughout the room, boots scuffing against the floor.  The memories that she’d relived – hers and his twining together – left a bitter taste in her mouth.  Her hands began to itch, and she brought them up to her face.  Dirt and blood crusted over her knuckles, and beneath her nails.  She looked at Killian.  His back was to her, bloody, dirty rips in his shirt and vest.

“Water,” she blurted.  “I’ll go get some water.”

Killian turned, and frowned.  “Pardon?”

“Fresh clothes, too.”

The room felt as though it had shrunk, and she turned towards the door, longing for a brief escape, for open air, for clean hands and a clear mind.  Killian seemed startled, and three long strides brought him to her side.

“ _Now_?” he said, incredulous.

“It’s been about fifteen minutes since we arrived and I already feel like my skin might break open if I have to wait any longer.”

“Wait for _what_?”

Emma rolled her eyes.  “Seriously?  For the _ship_.  The one I asked for when I sent that message.”

He blinked down at her.

“Oh,” he said.  “ _This_ is the town.”

“Yes, Weir.  Where did you think we were?”

“I wasn’t really thinking at all, love.  I can’t say I had all of my wits about me.”

“All three of them,” she teased, half-heartedly.  Then, “Your clothes are torn, and bloody.  My hands are caked with…”  She swallowed.  “We need to wash up, and then we can wait.”

He tilted his head, regarding her from beneath a sweaty brow, blood smeared on his cheek.  “I’d protest, or tell you to be careful…but I suspect you wouldn’t accept either.”

Emma laughed, quiet and humorless.  “It’s not the first time I’ve stolen basic necessities.”

Killian’s face fell.

“I know,” he said.

_I saw things too._

Whether from memory, or in that moment, his voice seeped into her mind.  Her eyes drifted from his face, down his chest, unable to look at him.  She shook her head, and walked out the door.

* * *

Emma returned when the sun was high, wearing a fine cloak she’d stolen from the northern district.  It had been paved with bright, clean cobblestone, and lined with orderly markets.  It gave a beautiful illusion.  The vast majority of the residents of Weir appeared to have little more than the clothes on their backs.  Their wharfs crumbled, their small ports unused.  The water was clean, though it seemed lifeless.  Emma’s heart broke as she had wound her way carefully back to the keep, circling again and again, until she was certain she had not been followed.  She carried two heavy skins full of fresh, cool water, as well as a shirt and vest, the latter stolen from a clothier beside the tannery.

Killian seemed agitated when she walked through the door, holding her spoils triumphantly above her head.  They weren’t quite like the delicate finery of his ruined clothes, nor those he’d worn when she’d first met him, but they were fresh, and _not_ coated in blood and grime.  

He looked equal parts amused and exasperated when he caught sight of her, as she’d hoped he might.  His clearly endless pacing had cleaned parts of the floor of the grit it had accumulated over the years.  The sun peeked down through the window, though he stood along the eastern wall, where the light did not reach.  His eyes stood out amongst the spare shadows like a creature’s in the night.

“Clothes,” she said, and dropped her robe to the floor, the clothes atop them.  “The vest is leather.  It has a _thousand_ buttons, which, sorry about that, but apparently that’s the style – ”

“Emma,” he said, stepping close, then closer still.  Brief, shining amusement flickered away, like a candle beneath a glass cage.  “I want to tell you a story.”

Her heart began to race, and she remembered how it had felt to crush a heart.  Only, she _hadn’t_.  

She blinked.  No preamble, no pretentions.  He had clearly been waiting for her, had built up his resolve, perhaps warred with himself, whether he would continue to hide, or reveal himself.  All while she had wandered the town, trying to forget the sounds he made when he was in pain.

“About what?” she whispered.

His lip twitched, an aborted sneer, the Dark One before her.  His brow pinched, and terrible grief took its place.  Back and forth he went, like a pendulum, into the shadow and into the light.

“The kingdom I destroyed,” he said, dispassionately.  It was put upon, she knew, but still it chilled her.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He shook his head.  “You have a choice, Emma, but only if you know.  In several days’ time, your ship will arrive, and you can leave me behind, or you can take me with you.”  His expression flickered, stone to fear, then back again.  “I will do whatever you ask.”

“That’s ridiculous, the past is in the past.  It’s not going to change anything.”

“Ah, but that’s not true, is it?  There are some things that can never be forgotten, some wounds that never heal.”  He swallowed, hard, and his lashes fluttered.  “I had a brother, many years ago.  This, you know.  But what you don’t know, are the circumstances of his death...of his _murder_.”

Emma felt his grief, like blood in the water, turning everything red.  “Killian…”

“Some three centuries ago, I was born in a town much like this, on the other side of this very sea.  My mother died before I could know her, and my father sold my brother and I into servitude when we were children.  Liam cared for me, and when I was at my lowest, he dragged me into the Royal Navy.  There I learned many languages, rose through the ranks.”  He paused, and looked down at his feet.  “I thought I knew myself, my _true_ self.  But then our king, in his treachery, commanded we sail to a foreign land, with the aid of a Pegasus sail.  He said we were to find dreamshade, a plant that could cure all ills.  But it was _poison_.  My brother died, and I fell to pieces.  When I at last had my revenge on Rumpelstiltskin, and became the Dark One, it was hardly _days_ before my thirst set me upon another.”

Killian was shaking.  Tears, whether of anger of frustration or grief, gathered up in his eyes, and began to spill over.

“The royal district of my home was not vast,” he whispered.  “The kingdom was small, compared to others.  Plagued by poverty and forced servitude, children bartered for goods.  But its courts were beautiful.  Great towers and paved streets.  The royal family and their extended court, _dozens_ of them.”  He paused, his hand and hook alike shaking violently at his side.  “I killed them.  I brought down their castles.  Their courts ran with blood.  When all others had fallen, I found the prince hidden in their towers, the last of my own king’s bloodline.  His heart was pure…beautiful.”

He leaned forward, a wild expression on his face.

“And I _crushed_ it,” he said, in many, terribly familiar voices.

Emma closed her eyes, tight, and could feel the heart in her hand, beautiful just as he’d said.

“That was many generations before your time,” he said.  “But I stole their history, scattered their royal people.  And the _worst_ part is, I convinced myself it was for the better.  The people could rebuild, overthrow the courts and start anew, throw off their egregious history and become peaceful, and just.”

“Did they?”

Killian seemed startled by the question.  “I...I suppose.  Often, I seek word of it.  There are stories, passed from parent to child, of a grand revolution, driven by the people.  But there are those who linger in this realm…those who know the truth.”

He lifted his head, and pressed his feet together.  His fingers drew over his hook, again and again.

“Now,” he said, imperious and unfeeling.  “You are one of them.  Whatever will you do?”

Emma breathed, deeply.  The memories she had seen, and the story he had told, they began to bleed together.  She saw his brother, bright and young and beautiful.  She saw a kingdom corrupted, ignorance and greed abounding.  When she saw the prince, and his heart, blood at her feet and revenge between her fingers, that darkness spoke.

 _It was merely a suggestion,_ one voice said.   _An eye for an eye._

_He was weak to the darkness, and we took him for ourselves._

_Yes, just like he wanted._

_He embraced the darkness long ago, dearie, and you pretend he stands in the light._

On and on they went, painting Killian in her mind, given over to great evil, his skin unnaturally green and hardened over, slits in his eyes, and oil in his hair.  It was their great mistake, for the man before her, posturing to cover his sorrow and guilt, looked nothing like that.

 _No_ , she told them, fiercely, and stepped forward.  Killian’s eyes widened, and he stood straight.  She reached out, and he watched with dark eyes as her fingers fell first on his cheek, then curled up into his hair.  He remained still, watchful.

“No one can excuse what you did,” she said.

He nodded, her thumb rasping over his beard.  “Aye.”

“Least of all me.”

He bowed his head.

“But I want you to come with me,” she whispered.  “If you’re looking for absolution, or forgiveness, or…whatever else, I can’t give you that.  But I can leave the past where it lay, and see you for what you are _now_.  Killian, please…come with me.”

Killian breathed, harshly, and Emma felt it on her skin.  He looked pained, in some ways worse than before, when he laid helpless upon the floor of the keep.

“You can’t want that,” he said.  He stepped back, and her hand fell back to her side.  “You don’t want me.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” she said.

Incredible sorrow, and incredible anger, poured off him in waves.  The darkness began to shout.  Never before had she seen Killian bend quite so low beneath the weight of their torment.  She could see it in his body, in the arch of his back.  He stretched, taut like a bowstring, his hand clawing at the tender skin behind his ear.  The voices within, many robed figures, they reached out and peeled him open, fear and guilt tugging him into madness.  The darkness reached for her next, pulling them both into a vision.

“Oh,” they said.  

Emma startled, and felt the rough fabric of their robes brush against her fingers.  The darkness built an image of the keep up around them, and pulled a great, black curtain over the open sky above.  It was like a waking nightmare.

“Oh,” they said, again, voices pitched higher.  Killian’s fingers played a silent, arrhythmic symphony against his thigh.  His eyes, so often bleak and otherworldly, were entirely his own, glinting in the harsh unnatural light spilling from nowhere.  The darkness, in a feat of wicked desperation, tried to possess her.  They poured terrible images into the vision, painting Killian before her as he once was, mindless for revenge, _the good of all_ chanted darkly in his mind.

“Nothing you do or say will convince me,” Emma said, fiercely.

It was enough to goad the darkness into action, and when she blinked, she saw the past bubble out of the shadows, a bloody one-man revolution behind the lids of her eyes.  The darkness, it twisted Killian’s face into a facsimile of a smile, and the room began to grow damp, warm.

“Oh, Princess,” they said, whispering harshly into her ears.  “You can’t possibly know to what it is you’re agreeing.  We have taken the blood of thousands in all our days.  In this man alone, we have stolen _hundreds_.”

When blood began to pour in through the cracks in the floors and in the walls, Emma shut her eyes

 _It’s not real, it’s not real, not real, not real,_ she chanted.  

The blood began to rise past her ankles.  It was an illusion, but all the same, the reek of copper filled her nostrils.  She bit her tongue to hold back the cough, but the darkness caught her discomfort, and Rumpelstiltskin appeared before her, between them.

“Do you know how a person bleeds?” he said.  “Do you, _Swan_?  How much?  How long?  I can assure you, dearie, that the man behind me knows better than most.  The blood of every person he has killed is filling the room.  I wonder, how long will it be before you drown?”

Emma could feel the magic prickle at her fingertips, a decidedly _dark_ energy racing down her spine.  But she did not indulge, and neither did she bend beneath the weight of the madness.  It called to her.  She did not answer.

“Get,” she said.  “ _Out_.”

The vision flickered, the darkness began to retreat, _screaming_ as it went.  Emma shut her eyes once more, and when she found no solace there, she rushed forward, until her face was pressed into Killian’s shoulder.  She threw her arms around him, and held on.  The darkness grew quieter, until, like the last flicker of a candle, it burnt away.  Killian was at first stiff and unresponsive in her arms.  But when the last of the vision finally died, he pressed his hook tentatively above her hip, and splayed his hand across her back.  He pressed his face into the slope of her neck, and all at once, she’d never known him quite so dark, his secrets spilled out at her feet, and yet quite so light, the darkness hiding away while the man leaned on her.

“Are they gone?” he said, in a small voice.

Though the room was empty besides them, and the vision had disappeared, Emma shook her head.

“No,” she answered.

They never were.

* * *

The days passed sluggishly while they waited for news of her ship.  Emma imagined it would remain offshore, where they couldn’t see, but still she would pace by the window.  At night, she would walk the old pathways in the marsh, broken boards that often had her trudging through the muck when they gave way.  The first night, she had walked fairly deep into the wood, despite Killian’s protests, to hide the dagger she’d pulled from his back, in case any enchantment remained on the blade.  Wrapped in a yard of stolen fabric, Emma had thrown it in a tributary that flowed to the south.

Killian, who had at first seemed cowed by his own confession, nervously awaiting another vision to come spilling forth, relaxed into patience, a very old, very _practiced_ patience.  It was irritating, truth be told, how he could sit for hours on end.  Only once had he left the keep, returning only to drop a bundle of wood on the ground.

“What the hell is that for?” she’d said.

He’d smiled wryly in answer, pulled a knife from his boot, and began to whittle, of all things.

On the third morning, Emma could bear it no longer, and followed suit, at his insistence.

“You’ll go mad, Swan,” Killian said, balancing the wood on his knee with his hook while he carefully shaved away.  It was all wrong for whittling, swollen and wet, often breaking down to nothing.  He would only shrug, and pick another piece.  “I find it’s best to distract the mind.  The nights grow terribly long, when you cannot sleep.”

Emma watched the gnarled stick at his knee evolve from driftwood to…

“Slightly less ugly driftwood?” she guessed.

Killian pulled another knife from his boot and tossed it at her feet.

“How many knives are in your boots?” she said.

He thought a moment.  “Less than ten.”

She eyed his feet skeptically, then moved closer to grab a piece of the wood at his side.  She took the knife from the ground, and weighed it in her hands.  It was light, and sharp, the hilt simple but sturdy.  Killian offered to show her how, but she refused, watching from the corner of her eyes as he plucked away with his own knife.  She balanced the wood on her knee, sharp edge of the blade facing away from her.  Gently, she pressed forward, and immediately cut the wood in two.

“I meant to do that,” she said.

He quirked a brow, but made no comment.

It was a silent agreement, as night swung to day, then back again, that they did not speak about the vision.  The darkness lingered in him, Emma could tell.  Sometimes, he would lay down the knife, and watch the door, then lean up to look at the roof, as though it wasn’t there.  She would prod him, then, and demand he assess whatever it was she’d created.  He’d look at it with distaste, and come back to her.

On the eighth day, soldiers from Camelot arrived on the backs of brilliant white horses.  They ignored the ruins – broken and bleeding in the marsh, overgrown and waterlogged – and scattered throughout the town.  It was a small contingent, hardly enough to search, or to guard.  Whatever was their purpose, Emma and Killian moved to the roof of the keep, should the guard choose to come near.  They climbed up the stone and kept their heads beneath the jut of the ramparts.  The air blowing in off the sea was cold.  The currents curled around the islands of the north, freezing waters rising from the deep, before flowing south to cool the western coasts.  Though spring was in bloom, the nights were only just warm enough that they did not kill the tender blossoms peeking up through the forest floor.  Before she had been chained to darkness, Emma had always been cold, and would never have agreed to lay out in the open air, time grinding slowly by.

 _Before_ , she thought, boredom and exhaustion and homesickness all warring within.

On the ninth day, Emma nearly lost hope.  She wondered if they should not have travelled north on their own.  It would be nearly three months by foot to the most northern port, where eventually they would have to commandeer a ship to sail to the islands.

 _Best do it on your own_ , the darkness tempted.  She did not listen.

As all the days before, Killian waited patiently, and Emma felt as though she might die.  The sun rolled through the sky, and she watched it paint the earth.  She listened to the waves draw back and push forward, over and over.  From time to time, she would talk about nothing of importance, and he would listen, answer her if she asked something, but otherwise, he seemed as though he could be an extension of the keep itself.

“I’ve had _many_ years to practice my patience, Swan,” he told her.

“I think I might die.”

“On second thought, I was never as terrible as you.”   

Emma snorted.  He smiled, wryly, clearly teasing.  He urged her to pick up her knife, to carve away at the stone if she wished, and she complied, if only to combat the feeling that, perhaps, her ship would never arrive.

Hours later, last light blinked away, and the stars came to life.  Streaks of brilliant color, the magic of the realms, danced in the clear air as she thought upon exactly what she’d been trying so hard to ignore.  There was something about the stars that opened her up, shadows coalescing in the night.  The darkness whispered at her, reminding her of her family, her friends, braving a burgeoning war, sailing the open waters.

 _Perhaps they’ve been caught_ , they suggested.

_Or tortured._

_There’s no knowing.  Better to just go._

“Emma,” Killian called her away from the darkness.

She turned to him..  Startled, she smacked his arm, _again_ , when she saw that a familiar bird sat upon his shoulder, then leapt down to his knee.  Days of waiting, _days_ behind her, all forgotten in a single moment.  She scrambled to her knees, leaning forward and watching the little bird preen.  

She’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

“Thank the _gods_ ,” she said.  Killian smiled at the creature, and Emma found it terribly infectious.  “She really likes you.”

He demurred.  “Surely not how she likes _you_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, my mother’s birds _hate_ me.”

Emma ignored his mild protest, and took the message tucked at the bird’s leg.  Brief, it instructed her to leave from the docks, to row straight east from the town’s lone port.  She peeked between the gaps in the parapets, and spied a faint wisp upon the sea.  It could be mistaken for a patch of low fog, shining in the moonlight.  Tears leapt to her eyes, and she wondered who she would meet aboard.

“I’m guessing they don’t know this place is infested with guards,” Emma said.

“It’s hardly infested, darling, we just need to be discrete.”

“You’re telling _me_ this?” she grumbled.  She climbed hastily back into the belly of the keep and threw the robe she’d stolen over her shoulders.

“Your haste will get us caught,” he said, though he seemed amused, and did not protest besides.  Emma grabbed his hook, and led the way.

Luckily, or so it seemed, Mordred did not expect them to remain long in any town, and there were few guards, at odd intervals.  Perhaps, as he should, he suspected they would keep to the forest, never be so bold as to walk among his own people, to sail through his own waters.  A stroke of ego, of self-assuredness, that was on their side.

It was early enough in the evening that people still milled about on the streets, yet dark enough that it was easy to hide in the shadows.  The streets were broken and unclean, what cobble remained smoothed over with time and use.  The lamplight, at least, was pleasant and warm.  The posts were old, perhaps more so than the sector of town itself.  They were cast from iron, heavy and tapered.  Artificial vines wound up along the stands.  The flames within were bright.  The stained-glass arcing along the wire was old, often broken, but they shone all the same.

_A light in the darkness._

Her father’s voice.  Emma nearly tripped over her own feet.  It had been days since she had heard it, hidden behind a curtain drawn of shadows.  

With renewed purpose, she moved this way and that, among the alleys, watching intently for guards.  Only two she saw, and though they seemed alert, she and Killian slipped past with ease, mindful of their routes.  The finery of Emma’s cloak was hidden by muck and several tears she’d acquired while walking through the wood, and along the broken pathways in the marsh.  Even if she were seen, she imagined she would not arouse suspicion, given that others like her wandered about.  Killian, clothed all in black, poured like oil behind her.  Shadow incarnate, she imagined he would arouse only fear of a creature moving in the dark.

It was not long before they reached the docks.  Her ship, a faint cloud to any other, was like a beacon on the sea to her, and Emma longed to feel its paint and rigging beneath her fingers.  A few small boats bobbed at the end of a long walkway, and anticipation began to stir in her belly.  She turned to the left, where another jetty stuck out into the water.  And where two guards, armor gleaming in the dim lamplight, made their way round and round.

“ _Shit_ ,” Emma said, ducking down behind a few crates, pulling Killian down beside her.

“It’s not quite so bad, Swan,” he whispered.  “Just – ”  He mimed with hand and hook.  “ – push them into the sea.  They’ll sink straight to the bottom.”

“That’s called _murder_.”

He scoffed.  “They can take it _off_ , it would merely take a few moments.  The water is shallow.”

“That’s a stupid plan and you know it.”

He grumbled, but said no more.  Emma watched, ducking lower still when they passed, and walked to the other end.  She watched for a break in their route, enough to allow them to slip by unnoticed.  When none came, she grew frustrated.

“We just have to get to _Jack_ ,” she said, quietly, to herself.

“Pardon?” Killian said, just as quiet, distracted as he watched the sea sparkle under the moonlight.  For days, he had been in the keep, on the sluggish edges of a marshy sea.  And now he gazed intently at the quick and open waves.  Though he had not complained, she imagined it was an incredible relief, to be out and about.  He leaned forward, and breathed in, his lashes fluttering.

“ _Killian_ ,” she said, pulling insistently at his coat.  She let go, quickly, when the runes gave off a rush of red light.  “ _You’re_ going to fall into the water.”

He grunted, shuffled his feet until he was steady.

“Sorry, love,” he said.  “ _Who_ do we have to find?”

She huffed.  “ _Jack_.  He’s my ship”

“Jack…”  He trailed off, more than a little confused.  “ _Jack_ is…your _ship_?”

“Technically, _Jonathon_.  And give me a break, I was nineteen when he first broke water.  My parents let me name him.  Now can we please – ”

“You can’t name your ship _Jack_ , Emma.  It’s…”  He waved his hand around, hook following, glinting in the faint light.  He looked so aghast, she couldn’t help but smile.

“I was under the impression that I could do whatever I want.”

He ground his teeth.  She could hear it, a gentle _click_ as he bit down.  “I would insist you rename her, but that’s terrible form.”

“ _Him_ ,” she corrected.

He opened his mouth to protest, she was sure, but she shushed him when the guards, _both_ of them, went marching by.  Emma could tell that they were bored, and tired.  They were sure to be, tramping around in such impractical arms and armor.

“They’re bound to follow,” Killian said, watching as, together, the guards stood at the other end of the pathway, speaking in hushed tones.  “We ought to set the dock aflame.”

She made a face.  “We’re not going to set anything on _fire._  You’re so dramatic.”

“I think you enjoy it, Swan,” he teased.  “It’s why you keep me around.”

Emma rolled her eyes, and shushed him when one guard broke away, back into the heart of the town, and the other remained, gazing towards the west, away from boats at the other end of the dock.  

Killian followed closely behind as she rushed quickly down towards the boats.  The guard was hardly a few leaps behind them, but by aid of some miracle, they crept unnoticed across the worn and weathered boards.  Killian leaned down and slashed at the ropes that held the boats fast to the dock.  The knots were swollen and slick with disuse, and while he worked away at them, Emma bounced on her heels, eager to return to her ship.  She closed her eyes, and imagined its peculiar atmosphere.

 _Home_ , she thought.

“Stop!”

A commanding voice echoed across the frothing waters, caught in the wind and carrying over the sound of the waves.  The guard stepped fiercely across the deck, her armor shimmering in the moonlight, clanking heavily as she walked.  She opened her mouth to shout once more, and before Emma could beg him not to, Killian rushed towards her, tearing off her helmet and poising his hook beneath her chin.

 _Don’t!_ Emma thought.

To her surprise, he answered in her mind, _I have to._ Then, aloud, “She’s already seen us.”

Killian pressed harder, and a trail of blood erupted from her skin, dripping down her neck.  Emma looked at the woman, and the woman looked back at her.  A touch of fear, a bout of resignation on her face.

“Killian,” she said.  “ _Please_.  Don’t do this, you _can’t_ do this.”

“I’ve done it before,” he snarled.  

The darkness stirred, restless.  And then Emma realized...there was something frighteningly rational about killing the woman, a voice telling her to just go ahead and _let_ him.  But –

“Don’t,” she begged.  “ _Please._ ”

Killian seemed to settle, and in an instant of benevolent inspiration, his fingers loosened.  His mind unfurled, blending with hers, until out of the darkness there came a light.  Her _own_ light magic, suffusing over them both.  It welled up in her, and spilled over into him.  When he breathed in, his eyes brightened.

“Forget,” he said, his breath crystallizing in the cold, turning a bright blue before it floated deliberately in the woman’s open mouth.  She fell to her knees, and then to her side, though not before he squeezed just that bit harder, another flare of magic closing the wound at her neck.  Emma stared up at him, bewildered.  She felt as though _she_ had cast a spell through his fingers.

“How – ”

“Not now,” he said, darkly, looking just as bewildered.  His hand shook, violently, and Emma nodded, dazed, leaning down to tug at the ropes that tied the boats to the dock until they broke free.  Two of them began to drift with the current, and one, sturdier than the others, served to lead them away from Weir, and towards the horizon.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love and gratitude to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help and encouragement with this fic. And thank you guys so much for your comments and kudos! Warnings for this chapter: Blood, violence

Emma nearly fell into the water when she scrambled up the hull of her ship, and over the gunwale.  August and Jo reached down to pull her onto the deck.  For one precious moment, unadulterated joy bubbled over, and Emma threw her arms around both of them in turn.  The ship smelled of both fresh and well-worn paint alike.  The sails had been replaced, a gentle and beautiful fabric that rippled in the breeze.  The helm gleamed in the starlight, and the deck was freshly scrubbed.

“Your mother and father would have rebuilt the entire ship if they’d had the time,” Jo said, kicking at the deck.

August shrugged, long-suffering, but fond.  “It was difficult to convince them not to come themselves, but there have already been skirmishes at the border between Misthaven and Camelot.  We can’t risk the King and Queen on the open sea.”

Emma nodded, and swiped at the tears that stung her eyes.

“I know, I know,” she said.  “They should stay in Misthaven.”

Jo smiled sadly.  Uncharacteristically, she seemed to be out of things to say.  Her hands were poised on her hips.  She looked weary, though fire still burned behind her eyes.  Her hair coiled in the damp, spring air, and she managed to look somehow older and younger than ever before.  Emma reached out, and squeezed her shoulder.  Jo’s smile widened, and she nodded over towards the gunwale.

“Have you been taking good care of my husband?” she said.

Emma turned, and watched as Killian climbed easily aboard.  He looked over the masts and sails, the helm and the deck.  His eyes lingered on the bowsprit, jutting at a high, proud angle.  Shadows still bit at his heels, and his hook and hand still shook faintly at his side.  Even so, he grinned winsomely when he looked at Jo.  

“Indeed she has, my lady,” he said.  He bowed before her, taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.  When he stepped away, he was distracted once more by the ship, leaning back to look at the fighting top, eyes twinkling.  For just a moment, silence predominated, and the joyousness of the reunion faded.  August cleared his throat, and caught Emma’s eye.

“Emma, I don’t mean this to sound distrustful,” he hedged, “but what the hell are you _doing_ here?  When your parents asked Jo and I to sail _Jack_ to Weir, I thought for sure they’d gone mad.”

“We met a seer in the forest...” Emma began.  She closed her eyes, and shook her head.  “Actually, never mind, the story is too long.  We’re looking for the heir of Camelot.”

August frowned, a distasteful expression on his face.  “If you’re talking about Mordred, you don’t have to look too far.  He was in Misthaven’s courts hardly two weeks ago.”

She breathed in, harshly, alarmed.  “ _What_?”

“Oh yeah,” Jo said.  “He’s terrible.  He declared war like he was discussing the weather.”

“It’s a shame your parents didn’t have him gutted when they had the chance,” Killian said.

“Stab him until he dies, yes, that was my second suggestion.”

Killian smiled, clearly amused.  “What was the first?”

“More _importantly_ – ” Emma gestured wildly between them. “ – he declared _war_?”

“Essentially,” August said.  “He demanded that you and your companion…”  He paused, then, and looked Killian over, a suspicious appraisal.  Killian – eyes dark, a deep blue bleeding faintly out and into the whites – stared back, unblinking.

“…that you both be given over to Camelot’s courts within the month,” August finished, slowly, “or they will take up arms.”

Emma tugged at her braid.  The world crumbled beneath her feet, and all she could do was chase after a woman who may not even _want_ to be found, whose family was the key to restoring peace in Camelot.  With their wisdom, guidance, and military force, Emma was certain the land would be lost to Mordred’s design.  She felt helpless, and angry.  She shuffled on her feet, casting shadows that rose to speak in her ear.

 _It’s not as though we haven’t won wars before,_ they said.   _Destroy their courts.  How can they find you, how can they kill your family and friends, when they’re rotting in the ground?_

Emma indulged the vision, if only for a moment.

“We _have_ to find the heir,” she said, quietly, feeling unsettled.  “The people of Camelot broke into two factions when Misthaven still warred with Regina and the Black Knights.  If we find the heir, we can reunite the people.  She and her family, they can _repair_ their kingdom, and prevent Mordred from darkening not only his own kingdom, but those around him.  If we can’t find her, if we fail…”

 _Then perhaps you’ll consider another option?_ Rumpelstiltskin suggested, laughing when Emma sneered.

“Then we go to war.”

They were all silent for a moment.  Misthaven had suffered war before, at dire consequence.  The kingdom, small as it was, had rebuilt itself beautifully.  The passion of the people who had carried them to victory, it laid down the brick and mortar that tugged them all out of despair and poverty.  Emma knew her people would lay down their lives.  She wondered if she could put a stop to it, or if her life was fated to be a cycle of violence, until at last death took her.

“So,” Jo said, at length.  “King Arthur had a daughter?”

“No,” Emma answered.  “Aldan is Guinevere and Lancelot’s daughter.”

August startled.  “Lancelot?  Married your mother and father, helped us when we were kids, disappeared and assumed dead, _Lancelot_?”

She smiled, faintly, and recalled his face, older, written over with lines, smiling down at her with affection.

“Yeah,” she said.  “Him.”

“ _How_?”

“I’m not kidding, August, it’s a _long_ story.”

He was not satisfied.  “So, a faction of Camelot returns with the royal family…and we think that alone will put a stop to this?  It could turn the war inward.  Camelot could devour itself.”

Emma thought of her mother, tireless and full of hope, leading where no one else could.  The darkness reached out and grabbed a hold of that thought, and tried to twist it to ruin –

 _There is_ always _hope, Emma_ , she recalled, in her mother’s gentle voice.

_I didn’t think you were the sentimental type, dearie._

– but it failed.

“We have to have hope,” Emma said.  “If we don’t, we’ve already lost.”

August hesitated, just long enough to stare hard into her eyes.  Confusion, skepticism, they wore away, and gradually gave over to unerring trust.

“Alright, Princess,” he said, “what next?”

“We sail to the northern isles,” she said.  “The locator spell we cast puts Aldan there as of ten days ago.  Which we can’t cast again because, uh…well a portal sort of appears every time we use dark magic.”

“Sorry...” Jo laughed, humorless.  “A _portal_?”

“It’s like I said.  Long story.”

“Aye,” Killian said, “and we don’t have time to linger.  Mordred’s guards have infected Weir, and likely every bloody village in the province.  The longer we stay, the more likely it is that we fail in this quest, and your kingdom falls back into war.”

August looked at Killian strangely.  “When did this become _your_ problem?”

Killian hesitated.  Emma could still feel him struggle, whatever war within had begun the moment he pulled her light magic out of his own darkness.

“I’ve not cared much for this realm for quite some time,” he said, quietly.  “I accepted darkness as a rule long ago, but this is something else altogether.  It’s unholy, and I don’t intend to allow it to infect your kingdom…yours, above all others.”

She felt as though it was the most honest thing he had ever said.  Killian looked down at his feet, clearly unable to resist the urge to tangle his fingers in the hairs curling wildly beneath his ear.  August, for all his suspicion, appeared to accept that answer, and looked at Emma, a curious expression on his face.  Jo bounced on her heels, and stepped closer to Killian.  She smiled up at him.  Killian’s hand fell back to his side, and his lips twitched.

“Don’t fuck this up,” she said, then looked to Emma.  “Don’t.”

“That’s very encouraging, Jo,” Emma said, dryly, “thank you.”

Jo’s smile brightened.  “You’re welcome.”

“We’d best weigh anchor,” Killian said.  “The winds are poor, and the journey will surely take several days.”

Emma nodded, and began to walk towards the helm.  “A week, in this weather, maybe more, maybe less.  August, can you – ”

“We’re not going with you, Emma,” he said.

“What?   _Why_?”

August smiled faintly.

“Mordred is desperate to find you,” he said.  “We have correspondence from citizens of Camelot friendly to our crown, and Killian is right, there are guards in _every_ town.  He threatens war without you.  Jo and I will row back to shore, and we’ll lead them off your trail.”

Emma protested.  “But – ”

“You’re our friend, Emma, but you’re also our Princess.  We’ll do whatever we have to do to help you.”

Emma considered asking them to stay.  But August was clever, and Jo was quick.  She longed to keep them at her side, but she couldn’t deny that Mordred grew closer at every turn.  To reach the northern isles as quickly as possible, they would have to sail the fast current near the shore.  If suspicion were turned elsewhere, they could avoid open conflict.

“You’d _better_ be careful,” Emma warned.

Jo, half over the gunwale already, grinned.  “Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

August squeezed Emma’s shoulders, and then bowed, the height of propriety.  He followed Jo down to the boat, still tied to the hull.  Emma felt tears in her eyes, watching them go.  She watched them as they grew smaller, bobbing towards the shore.  

When last they were visible, they laid their hands on their hearts, and Emma felt the cool, solid surface of a hook against the tips of her fingers.

“They’ll be alright, Swan.”

She could only hope.

* * *

When the ship was set to sailing some hours later – the ropes tied, the proper sails unfurled, the enchanted helm ticking away – Emma shuffled up near the bowsprit.  The endless sunrises she’d longed for spilled out before her, light of all shades caught in the waters out ahead.  The wind was heavy, thick moisture in the air hinting at a fog in the afternoon.  The haze dragged through the colors on the horizon, like fingers through wet paint.  

Emma sighed, and pressed her hands to the gunwale, reaching down to touch the hull.  It was so very quiet, and yet again, they needed to do little more than _wait_ as they travelled north.   _Jack_ could do much of the work for them.  But it was almost as much of a burden to do _nothing_ than to be tasked with defending the kingdom in its entirety, to let silence pervade.  The darkness loved the silence, chattering noisily.  Emma resisted the urge to tug at her hair, and instead reached up to take hold of a loose swoop of rigging.

“You seem vexed,” Killian said.

She could both feel and hear him approach.  His hook brushed lightly against the fabric of her shirt.  Emma turned, and he made his way even closer.  When she said nothing, he sighed.

“Emma, I…”

A stiff breeze wafted across the bow, and Killian’s nostrils flared.  His eyes turned and turned, catching on her hands and on her boots, venturing no further than the slope of her shoulder.  She might have found it amusing – for the way he appeared to try to sink below her, for the way his fingers dug into the skin behind his ear – were it not for the shameful look on his face.

“You what?” she said.

Killian shook his head, and finally looked her in the eye.  There was something unbearably vulnerable in his expression, and it made her palms itch with the urge to reach out and touch him.  The longer they travelled together, the harder it was to resist, to remember the reasons that she shouldn’t.

“Thank you,” he said, to the curl of hair that rested over her shoulder.  His jaw clenched, and he looked back into her eyes.  “That woman on the dock…were it not for you, I would have…”

“No,” she said, quietly.  “I don’t think you would have.”

“How can you be sure?”

The question caught her off guard.  She could hear the darkness whispering to him, terrible things, she was sure.  Killian winced, and Emma wondered why he did not harden himself to it.

 _Because he is_ weak _,_ they spat.

Emma dug her nails into her palm.

 _He’s_ not _weak_ , she thought.   _He’s strong._

“I just am,” she said.

Killian looked down at his feet, and he reached up to drag his fingers through his hair.  Emma watched as he sunk deeper into despair, and she stepped forward, until she had to crane her neck to look up at him.  She wrapped her fingers around his and pulled them away from his neck.  His lashes fluttered, but still he did not look at her.

 _He’s pathetic, isn’t he?_ one of the voices said.  The hairs on her neck stood on end.

 _We ought to tell you the truth,_ said another.   _How even darkness fails him._

When Emma did not falter, they persisted.

 _It hasn’t always been this way._ A woman’s voice, pleasant and accented.   _He found peace in the darkness.  Then he’s bound to you, and now even your light magic cannot soothe him._

_You’re torturing him._

Emma scoffed, and made a face.  She was glad that Killian had shut his eyes, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, his fingers slack and clammy between hers.

I’m _torturing him?_ she thought.

 _He’s said it himself,_ they answered.   _All he wants is to keep the darkness.  You fight against it, you drag him along.  How long before you bring him to ruin?_

“I…” Emma said, aloud, faltering.  But the darkness prodded at her, and the doubts she carried began to magnify.  

 _Don’t take this from me_ , he’d said.

He had very nearly begged her, when he’d first agreed to help.  And she _had_ taken it from him, in a way, polluting his darkness with her light, their souls wound together so tightly that he could access _her_ magic, could tug it out of her heart.

 _It’s destroying him_ , the darkness insisted.

_This isn’t what he wants._

_Let him go._

_Let him go._

Over and over again, _Let him go._

“Let me go,” she said, when she could stand it no longer.  Killian blinked, and looked down at her.

“Pardon?”

“Whatever happened on the docks, with the light magic…even before that, everything I’ve put you through.  I know it’s hurting you.  Just…I can do this on my own.  You don’t have to come with me.”

Killian’s hand began to shake.  “ _What_?”

Emma swallowed.  “Before I met you, it _had_ to have been better than this.  I can go, I can – ”

 _Give myself to Mordred,_ she thought, in a voice that did not sound quite like her own.  She wondered that it had not occurred to her before.  Perhaps it would delay the war long enough to give them time to negotiate.  Mordred was clearly consumed by madness, but he could be appeased.  The voices within hummed.  That they were pleased did not bode well, but Emma was desperate.  Her friends could be killed in Camelot’s forest, none the wiser.  Killian fell apart before her.  Her own kingdom, still recovering, sure to bleed dry.

_Better to do these things alone, dearie._

_There’s nothing you can’t do on your own_ , said another.

 _Do it alone,_ said many others.   _Alone, alone._

“I can go to Mordred,” she said.

“Emma,” Killian said, stumbling back, as though she had struck him.  “ _No_.”

“What if that’s the only way?  I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before now.  How could an heir, _one_ woman, unite the people of Camelot?”

“Merlin’s spell is nearly broken.  It’s hardly _one_ woman.  An entire faction of Camelot will return.”  He leaned down, and caught her eye.  “This isn’t you talking, Swan.”

She huffed.  “It _is_ me.  You’ve been miserable _._  And now my light is pouring into you and the darkness is _seething_.  I can hear it when it whispers at you, you know.  I don’t know what it’s saying to you, but it’s driving me _mad_.”

Killian’s eyes darkened, but the expression on his face, desperate and vulnerable and wild, remained.

“You think your light is hurting me?” he said.

Emma nodded.  His hand was still in hers, and he brought them both up to his chest.  He pressed her fingers over his heart, and shuffled on his feet until his boots nudged against hers.

“The darkness is desperate to be rid of you,” he said, quietly.  “Can’t you tell?  Your light isn’t hurting me, _they_ are.”

“But this won’t stop.  You told me not to take the darkness from you.  That’s _exactly_ what I’m doing.”

He sneered, and his hand tightened on hers.  “ _Fuck_ the darkness.  I don’t want it anymore.”

The voices, they shouted at her, in a dizzying array of languages and dialects, but with all her might, Emma focused only on Killian.  The shadows drained from his face, and the man stood before her, pleading with her not to go.

“Take it,” he said.  “Take all of it.  I can still feel you, your light, warring with the darkness.  It is painful, Swan, I won’t deny it.”  He paused, and let go of her fingers, reaching out to lay his hand on her shoulder.  His fingers brushed against her neck, thumb pressing into her collarbone.  “But I swear to you, I don’t want it.  I only want you.”

His jaw snapped shut, as though he had realized what he said.  Emma waited for him to take it back, to step away.  But he only stared at her.

“I...” Killian said, and paused to glance down at her nose, her cheeks, her lips.  Then, quietly.  “I only want you.”

“You’d give up the darkness?” she said.

 _For me?_ she wondered.

He nodded – whether at her words or thoughts or both – and tilted his head.  The morning light, brilliant and awash with color, caught his eyes, and she held her breath.

“Aye,” he answered.

 _Why?_ she thought.

_When did you change your mind?_

_Are you sure?_

Emma breathed out against his neck.  She thought many things, but none she could voice.  Her hand gravitated towards the lapel of his coat.  The runes, mysterious and beautiful, glowed brightly.  With the other, she touched his hook, her pinky curling around the tip.  She shuffled closer, until her chest pressed against his, and he sighed, warm breath washing over her lips.

 _I only want you too_ , she thought, and she stood on her toes.  Her hand found its way into the hairs at the back of his neck, and she pressed her mouth to his.  It was only a slight pressure, her lips closing over his.  She could feel his beard, tickling her face.  The darkness, like lamp oil in the rain, washed away.  He tasted sweet, and though his hand fell to his side, he pressed back.  A few, chaste seconds, and then Killian pulled away with a soft noise, his bottom lip catching on hers.  He looked down at her, eyes wide, a disbelieving expression on his face.

“I’m – ”

 _I’m sorry_ , she’d meant to say.  

But then, with sudden abandon, Killian tangled his fingers in her hair, his hook resting on her waist.  Open and wanting, his mouth slid against hers, his tongue pulling languorously over her own, over her teeth, the seam of her lips, then back again.  From his coat to his hair, from there to his waist, her hands wandered.  She forgot where she was, why she was there, and could only remember the curl of Killian’s hair at the back of his neck, tickling her fingertips.  And the slightly uneven slant of his teeth.  His nose pressed into one cheek and then the other.  He kissed her with the same passion that burned behind his eyes, in the moments he allowed himself to shine through.  Emma could hardly stand it, stumbling over his feet, using them for leverage to pull herself higher so that, when he broke away, she could feel his cheek, rough and prickly, against her lips.  His jaw, then, and the whorls of his ear.  She hid her face in his neck, her arms twined over his shoulders, palms flat against his back.  Killian held her tight, his hook catching on her vest, fingers dragging along the divots of her spine, up the slope of her neck.

“I won’t leave you, Emma,” he said.

She believed him.

* * *

Evening fell sluggishly, but for once, the interminably slow passage of time was not entirely unwelcome.  Fog had rolled in from the east, as she had suspected, but it was not dangerous.  Beautiful, iron lamps hung from the port and the bow, and when dusk had settled, Killian had leaned over the edge, carefully setting them alight.

Before the sun had set, they had retreated to her cabin, where Emma’s maps and compasses and sextants were locked away in a simple, wooden chest.  Killian had moved through the space carefully, as though afraid he might break something, looking at everything with memories in his eyes.  He’d relaxed, in stages, as she’d poured over their route.  Though _Jack_ was enchanted, and responded to her light magic, her instructors in her younger days had warned her not to rely on him overmuch.  So she drew from star to star, marking their course.  Killian, perhaps emboldened by how she’d practically thrown herself in his arms, stomping on his toes while she chased his mouth, had begun to circle the room, his chest brushing against her back with each pass.  He was silent, save for once, when he’d leaned over her, the pommel of his dagger pressing into her back.

“Follow the swan of the stars,” he’d whispered, breath wet against the back of her ear.

“Cute, but not helpful, at _all_ ,” she’d said, pretending to be annoyed.

Now, upon the deck, darkness descended all around them, and they were ensconced in a bubble of warm, yellow light, lounging at the bow of the ship, with several days of travel ahead.  Aside from the light fog, the weather was pleasant.  Emma had sailed to the innards of the gyre, where few ships were likely to be.  The waters were stagnant, but _Jack_ was light on his feet, and the winds above were steady.  So, onwards he went, while Emma sat upon the base of the bowsprit, one foot dangling high above the water, the other above the deck.  Killian sat nearby, watching her with a wary expression, within an arm’s reach of her leg.

“In my day, you’d be flogged for lounging on the bowsprit in such a way,” he said.

“ _Your day_ was centuries ago, so that’s irrelevant.”

Killian snorted, an entirely undignified sound.  She looked down at him, and was struck by how light he appeared, and how quiet the darkness was, hardly a murmur in the back of her mind.  His eyes were nearly green in the lamplight, with flecks of blue that overtook during the waking hours.  The sight of his hair, mussed by the wind, curling in the damp air, evoked something of a synesthesia in her, like a waking dream.  Emma followed the curl of it with her eyes, and her fingers itched.  She glanced at his lips, and felt as though she could taste him on her tongue.

_Live for the moments, Emma._

Somehow, she imagined this wasn’t what her father had in mind, but she’d take his advice all the same.

“Tell me something,” she said.  She leaned forward, allowing her leg to swing back and forth.  Killian watched it a moment, his jaw ticking, before looking back up at her.

“Like what?”

“Something good.  From before the darkness, maybe?  Something about you.”

Killian looked wary, and she imagined that, days ago, he might have refused.  But, perhaps between the taste of light magic, and the taste of her mouth – all speaking to some greater degree of freedom from the darkness – he’d allowed himself to crack open.  He seemed to think on it, looking out towards the sea.

“I had a ship,” he said.  “Before I wrested her from their control, she belonged to my kingdom’s Royal Navy.”

Emma leaned forward.  “Were you a _pirate_?”

He grinned, bright and beautiful.  “Aye, I suppose I was.  That’s what they called us, sailing wherever and whenever we wished, to the aid of no crown.  Never before had I felt so…free.”

She smiled encouragingly, and he continued.

“I called her the _Jolly Roger_ ,” he said.“Terribly unoriginal, I know, but I named her during an impassioned speech, all while throwing my frock into the sea, and burning our Pegasus sail.”

“You _burned_ a Pegasus sail?”  She imagined what Regina would have to say about that.  “You could have just taken it down, used it later.”

“I was afraid my kingdom would take it from me, use it to acquire the dreamshade.  Of course, decades later, they’d managed to do so anyway…”  He paused.  It seemed he could not tell a story without skirting one bad memory or another.  He sighed.  “Besides that, it was quite a spectacle.  The crew deferred to me immediately.  Given it was my brother whom they had followed so long, the dramatics were necessary to turn their eye.”

Emma ignored the mention of his brother, afraid it would lead him back into despair.  “So, you admit you’re just dramatic.”

He quirked a brow.  “It certainly has its uses.  I convinced nearly two dozen men to abandon their crown and turn to a life of piracy.”

“What was it like?”

“Piracy?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he said.  He scooted closer, and nudged his knee beneath where her foot dangled above the deck.  It was cheeky, but she suspected he just couldn’t hardly stand watching her sit so precariously above the water, for whatever reason.  Concern couched in flirtation, perhaps.  “It was frightening, at first.  The _Jolly Roger_ had been called _The Jewel of the Realm_ , and she was indeed.  The kingdom was desperate for their ship, their people, and their weapons.  I spent many a night awake above deck, watching obsessively for their ships to approach.  But, once we took our first schooner…well, it was like an opiate, if I’m honest.  We took more and more each time, smuggling their precious cargo and selling it for wages.  Some cargo…”

Killian looked up at her.  He reached up, fingers wrapping lightly around her calf.  When she tilted her head, he gripped harder.  His flesh was warm, heat seeping down through her trousers.

“I’ve told you of my kingdom,” he whispered, hoarsely.  “Some cargo was simply immoral.  That, we destroyed, or…delivered to freedom.”

He drifted away for a moment, eyes turned towards the stars, but Emma pressed down against his knee, and brought him back to her.

“Eventually, we sailed further,” he said, “until we were docking at desert ports.  Heat like you wouldn’t believe, dry and biting.  The overwhelming smell of perfume, jewels glittering in a sun that sat almost directly overhead, all the year round.  Lush jungles and soft beaches.  We sailed north as well.  That was when I first set eyes upon the northern isles.  Craggy mountains and rocky shorelines, ugly and desolate.  But…whales as well.  Incredible, massive creatures that seemed to follow us from port to port.  They scared the wits out of everyone on my ship.”

Emma laughed.  “The _whales_ scared you?”

“Well, we had known krakens, you see.  Other sea monsters of the sort.  Who was to say we wouldn’t wind up in the whales’ bellies?”

She gave him a _look_.  “Right, of course.”

Killian scooted closer still, until he was almost directly beneath her.  He leaned until his cheek pressed against her knee.  It was a new feeling, like a wall had been breached, one she’d kissed down to rubble just that morning.  He touched her with very little reticence, and she did the same, reaching out to draw one finger down the length of his jaw.  He closed his eyes, and breathed out, warm air down the length of her inner thigh.

“I saw the world, Swan,” he said, quietly, in a far-away voice.  “It was beautiful.  I saw all manner of creatures, some of which you’d never believe.  We went where we pleased, and answered to no one.  When I looked inside, I saw only myself.”

 _And not the darkness,_ she finished, silently.  For some time, he remained where he was, quiet, breathing against her leg.  She moved closer, and rested her hand in his hair.

“What about you?” he said.  

Killian opened his eyes.  He reached out for her other leg, drawing his fingers over the sensitive flesh behind her knee.  Just touching her.  No intent in his eyes, content only to press his body against hers.  Emma imagined it had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to touch and be touched in return.

 _Why don’t you ask him?_ the darkness prodded.

 _You get the fuck out of here,_ she snapped.  Her face twisted, hardly a moment, but Killian caught it, a worry line drawing between his brow.

“Swan?”

“I’m fine,” she answered.  “So, something good, huh?”

He nodded, slowly.

“Well, okay, uh…I told you about _Jack_ , right?  I got him when I was nineteen.”

“Aye, you’ve said.”

“Well, that is seriously a _ridiculous_ thing to get when you’re nineteen.  I was practically still a child.  But it was a guilt present.  From my parents, really, but strongly encouraged by the woman who nearly destroyed our kingdom.”

His brow climbed up towards his hairline.

“Yeah, I know.  The war had dwindled to nothing but skirmishes here and there when my parents captured the Evil Queen.  We had taken her back to our castle, and she was locked away in the basement, held there with some kind of…”  Emma wrinkled her nose.  “…really awful magic.  My parents told me not to go down there.  Not under _any_ circumstances.”

“I imagine you didn’t take too kindly to that.”

“Not at _all_.  At first I just wanted to see her.  I was curious.  What was the woman who put me on the run for so long _like_?”

“What _was_ she like?”

“I about pissed myself, to be honest.”

He laughed.

“After the first time, I wanted to prove that I wasn’t afraid of her.  She tried to intimidate me.  But without her elaborate dresses, or her magic, it didn’t work so well, not when I realized that she couldn’t lay a hand on me.  But then…something started to change.”

Killian seemed enthralled, leaning hard against her leg.  “What?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it.  I asked her questions.   _Endless_ questions.  She answered.  Not at first, but eventually.  I guess she was bored, so she talked to me.  When I was fourteen or fifteen, I can’t remember, my magic started to give me trouble.”

“The wiles of youth?”

“Something like that.  We had tutors in the castle, some faeries that came to visit from time to time.  They tried to help but I couldn’t _stand_ them.  They were so pedantic.  So, I went to the Evil Queen.  She was _awful_.  But also...encouraging somehow?  She helped when no one else could.  We became friends, I guess.”

Killian looked up at her with a soft expression.  His fingers had fallen away from her knee, and instead dug into her ankle.  Further still she sunk down off the bowsprit, nearly in his lap.

“And how did your parents take to that?” he said.

“Oh, they were livid.  I thought they were going to banish me to the tower.  No matter what they did or said, I kept seeing the Evil Queen, and she kept helping.  She became Regina to me.  I guess she had a soft spot for children, or something, because in a matter of years, she went from sworn enemy to something of an advisor to the crown.”

“Perhaps she just had a soft spot for you?” he suggested.  

He shifted, and she slid until her thigh rested on his knee.  His brow waggled, slyly, and Emma remained stubbornly atop the very base of the bowsprit, leaning back on her elbow.

“I don’t know,” she said.  “Maybe.  Either way, the older I got, the more restless I became.  I sailed as far as I could and as _often_ as I could, but my parents wanted to groom me to rule in their stead.  After a…well, it was a _really_ nasty fight.  It was the first time I suggested that I abdicate to my brother, who was only a few years old at the time.  I stowed away aboard a ship bound for Agrabah.  We didn’t make it far before my parent’s officers discovered me, and took me back home.  My mother wanted me to shadow her advisers.  My father just wanted me happy.  Regina suggested a compromise.  Give me a ship, and allow me to try my hand at being an ambassador.”

Killian seemed impressed.  “At nineteen?”

“I was only an honorary captain, really, and an honorary ambassador.  Although…well I guess it wasn’t long before I took over.  Nine years later, here I am.”

He hummed, eyes glittering up at her, and Emma smiled.  Her arm began to shake beneath her weight, so she let go, and sat properly in his lap.  Color rose in Killian’s cheeks, and he shifted to let her down, but she did not go.

“Got you,” he said, quietly, a bit nervously.

“Were you really so worried that I’d fall off the bowsprit?  I’ve been on ships my whole life.”

“Oh, I know.  You just seemed so determined _not_ to be dissuaded from leaving your perch, I wondered what it would take coax you down.”

“Ass,” she accused.

“Most definitely.”

Emma _did_ intend to leave, then.  But, as before, the constant vile whir and murmur of the darkness seemed to fade away with their closeness.  She could almost trick herself into believing that she did not bear their curse.  She focused on the way the heat from his body wept into hers.  She leaned forward, until their hips were flush.  His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.  His mouth hung open, just barely, teeth peeking out from between his lips, and his breathing was shallow.  Though there was no real rhythm to it, he shifted forward, and then backwards.  Emma could feel him, and followed where he led.

“Emma,” he said, softly, from somewhere deep in his throat.

“What?”

When she pushed forward, gaining her balance, hips hard against his, he made a noise.  It grabbed ahold of her spine, jolting down her back before settling between her legs.  She breathed with him, and watched him lick his lips.  He still moved beneath her, like he couldn’t help himself.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.

“Yeah,” she agreed.  “Me neither.”

Still they moved together, dangerously close to finding a pace.  She remembered the taste of his mouth, wondered if he would taste different tonight, when the stars were muddied by a gentle haze.  If his tongue would be cooled by the sea air, if the salt would sink into his flesh.

But he was right.  A stilted decrescendo brought her body to a halt, and she moved away, unsteady on her own two feet.  Something still haunted him, some secret he still carried.  Emma wanted to tell him that the past was behind them, that it didn’t matter, but he carried his darkness close to his chest.  He would not let go of it quite so easily.  So, she backed away, and watched the fire in his expression grow cool.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Killian shook his head.  “It’s not your fault, darling.”  He smiled crookedly.  “I would not have beckoned you closer if I did not want you.”

_I only want you._

Emma nodded, and watched as he got to his feet.  The pitch of the deck let him stand taller than her, more so than usual.  She looked up at him, and though she could feel the darkness begin to struggle, wriggling down into the figurative space growing between them, he appeared gentle and calm.  Whether it was a trick of the night, the moon rising in the southeast, or of her own imagining, the runes on his coat began to shimmer, faint red light seeping out of the enchanted leather.

“Maybe next time you can tell me the story behind that coat,” she said.

He looked down, and fiddled with the hem.  He frowned, and held out his arm, watching the magic roll gently from the fabric.  When he looked back at her, there was a sharp expression on his face.  But then she blinked, and it was gone.  Emma wondered if she had imagined that as well.

“Aye,” he said, quietly.  “Perhaps.”

* * *

The breaking of dawn was hardly quiet, for like them, the sea did not rest.  But it was more peaceful than the forest by several degrees.  Emma loved the forest.  At times, she felt torn between the wood and the sea.  But the darkness seemed to thrive among the trees, leaping from shadow to shadow, crawling beneath the underbrush and dripping out of the canopy.  On the open waters, the shadows could not hide.  Emma had brought her maps and tools above deck.  She’d tied a chest to the portside rail, figuring that, if the waters grew rough, she could hide them there.  But otherwise, she did not venture down below.  There, more so than anywhere else on board, the darkness lurked, whispering hurtful things.

Unlike the waiting game they had played in the ruins of Weir, their journey on the sea went quickly.  Dawn rolled to noon and then to night, and Emma busied herself with the scuffs and marks on the deck, what few there were.  Killian walked from bow to stern, and surveyed the ship with a sailor’s eye.  She could hear the darkness whispering to him.  Often, his jaw would clench, and he’d lurch as he walked.  His face would pale, and he would stare at the water until life flooded back into his flesh.  Then he would turn to her and say –

“The sea can purge any demon.”

He was right.

The darkness spoke to her too.  Insidious things meant to tear them apart, to make them doubt, to frighten them to inaction.  When it didn’t work, the shadows would slither away, sure to come back.

In the evenings, each of which grew colder and colder the further they travelled, they would sit upon the bowsprit, or on the curve of the bow, or on the fighting top.  Emma would dangle her legs over the water, and he would tell her stories.  Most, of his days as a pirate, in this realm and others.  And some, of those he spent in the Royal Navy.  She would tell him stories in turn.  Lands she had visited, royalty she had met, customs and religions and languages that reminded her that the size of the realm was truly incomprehensible.  He would alternately watch her eyes and her mouth as she spoke.  By some silent agreement, as much as she longed to step back into his arms – and he into hers, judging by the way he looked at her – she did not.

On the ninth day, late in the afternoon, a young gull fluttered down upon the deck, a capelin writhing in its mouth.  As gulls often were, it was bold, finishing its meal in its entirety before leaping to steady upon the gunwale, and then flying north.

“There are several small, virtually uninhabitable islands stretching down towards the southeast,” Killian explained.  “So, we’re not quite as close as you’d think.”

When Emma’s face fell, he reached out and tugged at the sleeve of her shirt, straightening it on her shoulder until she looked up at him.

“Tomorrow morning, I’d wager,” he said.  “Bully for us, then, since – ”

“There’s a storm coming?”

“Aye, there is.  Not the best time to face the northern isles, but _Jack_ is as steady a ship as any.  He’ll make it through alright.”

Emma nodded, and reached out to pat at the helm.

“You’ll be alright, _Jack_ ,” she said.

The ship groaned congenially.  The wind picked up, and he cut swiftly due north.  Killian smiled, and leaned over the bow.  In the cold, the waters were the color of slate.  The sun shone at a low angle, and the light skipped off the surface of the sea like stones, leaving whatever was beneath hidden by a curtain of gray.

“Your ship is a marvel, Swan,” he said, still gazing down at the sea.  “A bit younger than I’m used to.”

 _Jack_ lurched over something, a wave Emma couldn’t see, and Killian stumbled on his feet.  He smiled.  “A bit livelier too.”

“You said the _Jolly Roger_ was enchanted too?”

He nodded.

“So, you know about the whole…”  Emma gestured, weakly.  “…you know, mood swings thing.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his eyes twinkling.  “The wisdom of an ancient forest brought out upon the sea.  Given legs on which to run, so to speak.  The _Jolly Roger_ was just the same.  Wizened by time and war.”

He spoke of her as an old friend, and she smiled.

“What happened to her?”

 _Oh,_ a deep voice whispered, _my favorite tale._

 _Yes,_ said another, _just after the death of the courts._

_I wonder how long it will be before you realize the true shade of his heart._

Emma bit down on nothing, and watched several emotions appear on Killian’s face.  Anger, regret, sorrow, all tugging on his brow and aging him by several years.

“I don’t think that’s a story you’d like to hear,” he said, quietly.

“You’ve said that about a dozen times now.  You don’t have to tell me, but don’t hold back because you think I’ll suddenly toss you overboard.”

He smiled, briefly, faintly, and looked down at his feet before looking out at the horizon, curved along the gentle arch of the realm.  He sighed, and his breath crystallized upon the air.  Spring, it seemed, had not yet come to the north.

“It was after I…”  Killian paused, and his fingers dug into the rail.  “…I’d left my old kingdom in ruins, factions of the people fighting for power.  Blood still stained my clothes when I returned to my ship.  I sailed north, and when at last I docked, it was upon the deck, dark footprints from bow to stern.  I scrubbed and scrubbed, but they would not leave me.  I suppose the darkness could have tricked me – ”

 _Oh no,_ they said to her, speaking over him in her mind.   _Blood taken in vengeance is not so easily washed away._

“ – but that’s beside the point.  I felt I was going mad.  I could not bear to look at her.  She was born of their kingdom, familiar colors mocking me whenever I passed by.  It seemed she no longer cared for me.  I don’t know what came over me.  But I…”

He looked up at Emma.  His eyes shimmered, the flesh around them swollen.

“I burned her,” he said, mournfully.  “I sent her off to sea.  By the time my senses returned, it was too late.  I brought her back to the harbor, but she was little more than a skeleton.  I suppose I could have restored her.  But I let her sink to the bottom of the sea to rest.  I did not want her to see what else I would become.”

Emma stepped away from the helm, and stood beside him.  She laid her hand on his shoulder.  Nothing she could think to say seemed adequate, so she was silent.  

The skies were gray, and they grew darker as she stood with him.  It was not quite raining, but mist, cold and flush with salt, coalesced from the air, dripping down his coat.  After a time, he turned and looked down at her.

 _I did not want her to see what else I would become_ , the darkness mocked.

_Do you suppose he’ll send you away as well?_

_Quiet,_ Emma commanded.

“ _Jack_ likes you,” she said, in lieu of anything else.  She was relieved when he smiled.

“I,” he began, and looked over her shoulder.  His eyes hardened.  “ _Emma_.”

Alarmed, she turned.  There upon the water, several leagues behind, a ship followed.  Killian dashed to the chest by the portside rail, and fished out a spyglass.  He pried it open with his teeth.

“ _Camelot_ ,” he spat, and handed the glass to her.  Sure enough, the flag upon the ship bore Camelot’s crest.

“Mordred is so _fucking_ persistent,” Emma said, rushing around the ship.  As the islands drew near, the shelf in the waters below grew shallow, rocks jutting up from the sea floor.  Killian had cautioned her, and she had pulled a few of the sails.  Wordlessly, she coaxed _Jack_ to let them loose, full sail.  Killian followed, helping her to tie the rigging.  She ran back to the bow when the job was complete, reaching into his coat for the spyglass.  Faint amusement flickered on his face when she wrenched it open with her teeth.

“I have no idea why I did that,” she said, absently.  She watched for several long moments, but the ship only gained.  “ _Shit_.”

Emma passed the spyglass back to Killian.

“I’m not sure we can survive open conflict with another ship,” she said. “There are only two of us.”

“At full sail, though the danger of shipwreck increases _precipitously_ , if we’re careful as can be, I’d say we can dock in…six hours?”

Emma huffed.  “They’ll be on us in _two_.”

Killian paced in tight circles against the rail.  He chewed on his lips.  Emma could _feel_ his mind rattling against hers.  Still locked away, secrets living behind the iron bars.

“Sail to the east,” he said.  He stepped to the helm, and grasped the spokes with hand and hook.   _Jack_ seemed to take a breath when Killian looked to her.

“Why?” she said.

“There is a lone kingdom upon the cove.  We will barely reach in time, but the sea is treacherous and I assure you, Emma, the shore will take them before they take you.”

Emma didn’t hesitate.  “East, then.”

She watched him tug the wheel to the right, over and over, the sails swinging out, while _Jack_ turned smoothly.  The winds, directly in his sails, carried them quickly upon the current.  Emma took the helm while Killian remained behind, watching as the ship approached.

“Just the one,” he said.  “A schooner, judging by the speed.”

“A scout?” she guessed.

“Aye, most likely.  Foolish of them to confront us alone.”

“There are _two_ of us, Killian,” she reminded him, loudly.  “There are probably a dozen people on that ship.  We’ve got magic, but we can’t use it.   _Jack_ is fast, but he’s not meant to fight.  There are six cannons, and they’re lightweight.  We won’t lose a battle, but we won’t _win_ one either.”

Emma recalled the day _Jack_ had first broken water, brand new and shimmering upon the sea.  Then, suddenly, she imagined gaping holes in his side, his innards spilling out into the sea.  Wounded and left for dead while they crawled over frozen, unfamiliar isles.  She gripped the spokes, her knuckles white, palms sweaty but sure.

“Come on, _Jack_ ,” she begged.

At the end of the hour, rain began to fall, light and stinging droplets characteristic of late winter.  They soaked through their clothes.  Though Emma did not _need_ warmth, she was uncomfortable all the same.  But it was far outweighed by the fear that tugged at her heart.  Fear that spilled first to anger, and then to determination, as the schooner grew closer.  

Another hour brought them among high, snow-capped mountains.  They were clear and bright, like beacons in the dark.  She could see a cove ahead, just the lip, turning out towards the southern rim of the island.  But she could also see rocks, natural jetties that reached out and into the water like maleficent claws, dragging along the bottom and turning stones up high into the air.  Though the rain lashed, and the hull smacked against the churning waters, there was otherwise a deathly quiet, a silence that shouted over the noise of the storm.

“They’re here,” Killian said, into her ear.

 _You should have run when you had the chance,_ a voice taunted her.

_He’ll drag you down to the depths._

_He already has._

Emma growled, an aborted sound that lurched with the ship when heavy, steel claws smacked onto the deck.

“Princess!” a voice shouted.  

Emma turned, and spotted a figure leaning over the edge of the schooner.  There were lamps, several of them, glowing along the edge of their ship, alighting upon the faces of hardly ten people.  Two cannons jutted out of the portside hull, chains holding them fast to their position.  They seemed to stare up at her, gaping maws filled with dark promises.

“Our lord demands your presence in our courts,” the figure shouted.

“I’d rather not,” she answered.  Killian stood poised above the trap that led below deck.  Their own cannons were tied, powder and shot secured at their aft.  He watched Emma with dark eyes, painted over with pitch.  For once, she was not sorry that the darkness joined them.

“Surrender,” the voice demanded, “or we’ll be forced to take action.”

When she did not answer, the figure shouted again.

“Our lord demands it!”

Emma snarled, and ran to the gunwale.  The deck was slick beneath her feet, but she did not falter.  She grabbed a hold of a coil of rope and hoisted herself on the rail.  There were all manner of things she could say, distractions or negotiations.  Killian had run to the helm in her stead, steering the ship towards a narrow parting of rocks, weathered down to great, slate towers, smooth and slick in the rain.  She supposed she could buy for time.  But Emma could not find it in herself to be charitable.  She held fast to the ropes, and leaned out as far as she dared.

“ _Fuck_ your lord!” she shouted.

Emma ran back to the helm, and nearly pushed Killian off the wheel.

“ _Move_ ,” she said, sharply.

“You ran all the way there and back for _that_?” he said, incredulous.

Emma only glared, and motioned at the trap that led below.  He complied immediately, leaping down the steps.  She heard him clank about, but she paid him no mind.  She jerked the wheel to port, and watched with satisfaction as the metal claws on the ship dragged over the deck, embedding into the rail.  She could hear shouting on the schooner.   _Jack_ lumbered beneath the extra weight, but the winds were kind, carrying them to half speed.  She knew it would not be long, that they approached the rocks quickly, but not quite long enough.  When Killian called up to her, she turned back to starboard, just enough to allow him a clear shot.

The schooner fired first.

Emma had been aboard ships during sea battles before.  She remembered the splintering of wood, the feet pounding on the deck.  As a child, she had been afraid of drowning.  But now, all she could think of was the ship, a faithful machine dying like a beloved and benevolent soldier.  When the schooner fired once more, Emma cried out.   _Jack_ heaved and groaned, but Killian, swift on his feet, fired back.  The cannons cracked, wheels rolling loudly, iron bodies snapping against the chains.  Only one of three hit the schooner, but she could hear him loading more, cursing loudly.  That damnable little ship was not built to sustain battle.  But then again, neither was _Jack_ , and he protested against another round of shot, sinking through the hull and into his tender innards.

 _The rocks_ , Emma chanted to herself, _the rocks, the rocks._

She willed the ship to go faster.  They were nearly upon them.  The rocks ahead were just barely too narrow for _Jack_.  Clearly the schooner did not think her foolish enough to brave the passage.  Another round of shot sent them pitching dangerously to the side before they rolled back.

“We can’t take another!” Killian shouted.

“I know,” she answered.  “We won’t have to.”

Emma glanced over to the schooner.  Several of the sailors were cutting away at the ropes that held the claws.  Three, then four, grew slack, but they were not quick enough.  Emma tugged once more at the wheel, setting them straight ahead.   _Jack_ gave a terrible cry when he pushed through the narrow passage, boards scraping roughly along the rocks.  The schooner, however, skimming the sea at an awkward angle, was chewed to pieces.  Emma could hear the people shouting.

 _Hmm, I don’t suppose we’re going back for them?_ a voice wondered.

_I’m certain they would surrender._

_It would be the right thing to do._

_Or are you not who you think you are?_

Emma did not listen...but neither did she turn back.  She set her jaw, and turned around the bend in the rocks and into the cove proper.  Killian climbed above deck as the ship limped across the water.   _Jack_ gasped pitifully as water began to fill the ballast, spilling over into the upper chambers.

“Come _on_ ,” she said.  Killian stood beside her, and watched the great city ahead come into view.

“There are docks on the southeastern side,” he said.

“ _Not_ going to happen.”

Emma turned the ship towards a lonely gravel beach.  Where once he cut smoothly across the water, he jerked, hardly obeying the direction of the sails.  The foremast was likely to blame, sure to have broken in two if they had remained in the line of fire any longer.

“Hold onto something,” Emma said.  

They were fast encroaching upon the beach, the razor sharp mountains rising overhead, leaning over as if waiting to see what they would do next.  Killian acquiesced silently, reaching out to twine a loose bit of rigging around his arm.

With a terrible shudder, _Jack_ at last came to a halt.  Emma lost her footing, and skidded along the deck as the ship leaned forward along the slope of the land.  She caught herself at the portside rail, the force of her fall rattling up through her bones.  

When she rose to her feet, Killian appeared behind her.  Battle still raged in his blood.  The unquenchable thirst that boiled through him, rage and vengeance always biting at his heels, it chafed against her mind.  Outwardly, he appeared calm, and he looked out upon the waters, a sharp curve of the land that led around to the city by the harbor.  Cold lamplight rose up from the docks, and all throughout the city proper, painting it in several shades of blue.

“Arendelle,” Killian said, by way of introduction.

 _Arendelle_ , Emma thought, with a stab of familiarity.  She shook her head, leaned tiredly against _Jack_ ’s rail, and watched him bleed out upon the gravel.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless gratitude to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. And thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! I cherish every single one.

On solid ground, the rain didn’t seem quite so punishing.  It was light, and it felt like winter but smelled like spring.  It would have been pleasant – changing weather, a new city, new people – in different circumstances.  

As it was, Emma leaned far over the hull of the ship, grieving the damage, her fingers digging into the rail.  There was a steady, frozen breeze, and the rigging clanked softly overhead.  The sails fluttered, a mournful sound that curled around the tears in the heavy fabric.  There upon the gravel beach, the ship groaned under the strain of the unnatural angle.  Emma sighed, and pushed strands of wet hair out of her face, her hand lingering over her eyes.

“He is not lost,” Killian said.  He leaned beside her, looking down the gunwale at the shallow water washing over the gravel.  Great splinters of wood undulated with the gentle turn of the tide.  It was as beautiful as it was pitiful.

“We should go,” Emma said, quietly.  “Some of Mordred’s soldiers might have survived.”

_Oh, I doubt that, dearie.  I think you made sure of it._

She did not reply, silently choosing a small map of the north from the chest upon the deck – their destination marked with an angry splotch of red ink – before unfurling a ladder tied to the starboard side.  It was made of wood and rope, twisted up and tucked beneath the lip of the rail, just long enough to get them from the deck to the ground.  

Though she would prefer the play at normalcy, Emma supposed they could just jump.  After all, they were immortal.

_The Dark One is immortal, Swan, not you._

Killian’s voice in her mind – a brief touch of his against hers before he retreated – was a stray comfort.  He swung easily down the hull, hardly halfway down the ladder before he leapt to the ground, gravel crunching loudly beneath his boots, coat swinging dramatically at his thighs.  Emma felt it would be the opportune moment to tease him.  He looked up at her, eyes twinkling, as though he expected it.  But still she remained silent, and followed him down.  

Once on the ground, she surveyed the water.  The tide crawled sluggishly up the beach before rolling back toward the open sea.  It was a quiet place, the hush of winter still clinging to the island.  She supposed, if she spent an eternity looking at the sea, she wouldn’t have to look at _Jack_ , or what remained of him.  Killian, just ahead of her, looked the ship over.  His expression gave nothing away, and so she turned around.

“Shit,” she said.

“Aye,” he agreed.  “Though, nothing that a good shipyard can’t fix.”

Emma knew that, logically.  She looked at _Jack_ from bow to stern.  His belly was deep and tapered, long, arced boards and beams stretching from side to side.  It had been some time since she had seen below the waterline.  She was always careful to remove the ballast, to scrub the hull or otherwise command that it be scrubbed.  After such a journey, creatures still clung to the bottom, barnacles and seaweeds and other things that would be dead or dying given enough time.

 _Just like the ship_ , she thought.

Killian was right, he was not lost, he could be fixed, but he made a sorry sight there upon the beach, leaning hard to the south.  Gaping wounds, sharp and uneven, dotted the side, most towards the stern.  Much of the glass in the captain’s quarters was shattered.  Subtler wounds dragged from front to back where they had passed through the rocks, cracks and punctures that wove unevenly along the hull.  That alone would have been enough to sink them, had they remained on the water.  Emma sighed, and allowed herself to imagine a future where _Jack_ would be repaired and returned to Misthaven.

 _Nothing is a guarantee,_ the darkness whispered.

“Did it feel like this?” she said.

Killian came to stand beside her, then stepped closer to the ship.  He reached out, his hand splayed across the wood.  He looked at her over his shoulder.  His hair was wet, darker than usual, wild and curling every which way.  The kohl had washed away from his eyes.  Water flowed slowly down his face, coalescing on his chin before dripping to the ground.  She wondered that, with fresh eyes and sodden clothes, he did not look younger.  It was in his expression, she thought, an ancient sorrow.

“Worse,” he answered.

Emma nodded.  She hesitated by the water.   _Jack_ had been a momentary comfort.  He carried many happy memories.  When she listened, she could hear them, could feel them in the knots in the wood, chips in the deck, and one uneven spoke at the helm.  Could smell them in the swollen floorboards and green-stained ropes.

But Emma knew that, given enough time, the darkness would twist them all to ruin.

“Goodbye,” she said, softly, and turned towards the city.

Killian opened his mouth when she passed, as if to speak, but either he could think of nothing to say, or decided against it.  Emma trudged along, and he walked at her side, up and over crooked jetties, exposed by the tide.  The darkness fed on her misery, and on her apprehension.  They shuffled back and forth in her mind, showing her visions of everything that could go wrong.

 _And oh, how many things there are_ , one said.

_You should have turned back when you had the chance._

_Although it’s not too late to leave your companion._

_It’s not too late for him to leave you, either._

Emma sighed.  She was too tired to shut them out.  They pounded away at her bones, louder as the city before them grew brighter, looming large overhead.

“What did you say this was called, again?” she said.

“Arendelle,” Killian repeated.  “A small kingdom of the north.  Had you not heard of it in your travels?”

Emma had sailed to the north once before, only not quite so far.  She was not partial to the cold, and when autumn came, she would often sail south to warmer climes.

 _My duckling,_ her father would say, fondly.   _Overwintering._

“A few times, I think,” she said.  “I’ve never been here before, though.  It’s a little out of the way.”

“Of what?”

“Everything.”

He smiled, faintly, and stepped closer until his hook knocked against her thigh.  When the land sloped sharply up or down, she would take a hold of it, pulling him along behind.  He was content to follow her.  The darkness seemed energized by the cold, and for most of the journey towards the city, she and Killian were silent, each wrestling with the demons in their own way.  Killian moved stiffly over the rocks and through shallow pools of water.  And she, exasperated, sullenly ignored the frightful things the darkness said.  It was maddening.  

But, Emma figured, they underestimated her single-mindedness.  She sneered, and walked on, counting her steps as she went.

The shift from wilderness to civilization was gradual.  The cobble beneath their feet grew larger, like the rubble of an earlier time.  Pieces of carved stone, nearly washed over by years of the encroaching water, jutted from the beaches.  Towards the northern edge of the city, straight-backed cliffs rose from flat, artificial gorges, like great amphitheaters.  Tall, alpine trees crept as close as they dared towards the shore, sentries at the harbor’s edge.  The shoreline, gentle near the lip of the cove, grew more severe in its innards, and they were forced to walk through the forest.

“How is it,” Killian said, pushing through the underbrush, “that you manage to find the _only_ patch of trees on these islands?”

“Uh, I seem to remember that it was _your_ idea to come here.”

He grumbled, and drew a cutlass he’d borrowed from her hold.  The blade rasped loudly against its sheath, a dried crust on the dull edge.

“Bloody salt,” he said, hacking through a stubborn whorl of juniper.

“The ocean is funny that way.”

Killian rolled his eyes, but got on with it.  The forest thinned out upon a knoll of rock, an uneven surface that led down to a fork in a dirt road.  It sloped up towards the wilderness in the west, and down to the city in the east.

“I’d say there’s no need to venture into the city,” he began.

“But we need transportation...”  Emma tugged the map out of her pocket.  Sure enough, Arendelle was marked with a small _A_ upon the cove.  She tilted her head, and considered the journey ahead.  “We can’t just _walk_ where we’re going, clearly.  It will take a hundred years.”

He tapped at his lips thoughtfully.  “Steal a horse or two?”

“That would be great if we knew _anything_ about Arendelle.  This map is rudimentary, at best.  Who’s to say there isn’t a wall somewhere to the west?  We should have some kind of…I don’t know, documents.”

He frowned.  “Documents?”

“Well, we can’t just _poof_ where we want.”

Killian nodded, reluctantly.  He shook his hand, and shuffled on his feet, looking down the road, out where it twirled up and into the mountains.

“I do know something of this part of the island,” he said, quietly.  “But not well enough.”  He sighed, and straightened his coat.  He sheathed his sword, and leapt from the knoll to the road.

“Think of it as an adventure, Swan.”  He waited for her to follow, until she walked a half-stride ahead.  “You’re partial to those.”

“I’m never going on another adventure _again_.”

He smiled, and his fingers – as wet and frozen as hers – wrapped briefly around her own.  “Are you _quite_ certain?”

She watched him from the corner of her eye.  The land at her feet, tamped down by horse and carriage, began to meet sparkling, ordered stone.  A wide bridge, arching over a dip in the water, led to the edge of the city.  Curiously, blue light shone in the lampposts, the metal coils of a make she’d never seen.  A familiar rumble began to sound from the city center as they approached.  The murmur of a place that only slept in stages.

“You’re in a good mood,” she observed, blandly.

His expression twisted, just for a moment, darkness flashing before it gave over to light.  He looked down at her with meaning, cool breath tickling her nose.  She made a face, and again, he smiled.

“It’s not me,” he said, quietly.  “It’s you.”

 _I doubt that_ , she thought.

“You doubt me,” he said.  She would have suspected him of peeking into her mind, were he not so hidden in his own.  “You’re a hopeful creature, Emma.  Here in the darkness, it’s hard not to be enchanted by you, by your light.”

 _When light meets dark,_ _what’s been broken will be remade._

Emma’s halfhearted smile slipped off her face, and she looked down at her feet.  The thought – in a mockery of the seer’s mournful voice – came unbidden.  She hadn’t cared much for her cryptic prophecies.  Find the heir, destroy the darkness, prevent a war.  These, she could hold onto, follow across the realm with little time to spare.  Light and dark, whatever it meant, these could come after.

_How very utilitarian, dearie._

“Hush,” she said, aloud.

“Pardon?”

Emma spared him a glance, though she said nothing.  She watched the cobble beneath her feet swell to brighter, glittering stone blocks.  The docks stretched towards the southeast, and a dizzying array of staircases, abutted by carvings in high relief, led to a fountain square.  The fountains themselves were quiet, as the square itself, nothing but ice coating the basins and the spouts.  Only a few others besides she and Killian passed through, cloaks pulled low over their faces.  The lateness of the hour, and what seemed to Emma like an unseasonable chill, had surely kept many people indoors.

“Emma,” Killian said, quietly, stopping several paces behind her.

She turned to look at him.  He cut a long, imposing shadow, a streak of darkness against the statue behind him.  It was a man on a horse, weathered over with time.  A king, perhaps, or a general, an unfamiliar uniform decorated with juts of stone in the shape of medals.  The statue, and the buildings behind Killian – severely steepled, rain-slick stone and heavy shingles – dwarfed him.  The shadows shrunk, and he tilted his head.  His lashes fluttered, the darkness receded, and she wondered if that was what it looked like – _light meeting dark._

“What are you thinking about?” he said.

“The seer,” she blurted.   _Dammit._

He quirked a brow.  “Oh?”

“It’s just…she said some odd stuff.”

He stepped closer, into the light cast by a bright blue flame.  The lantern in which it burned rattled in the wind, swinging back and forth.  The light angled high, then low, playing with the shadows on his face.

“Odd?” he said.

Emma folded her arms over her chest.  “Well _you_ were there.”

He hummed, and leaned down, catching her eye.

“About the light and the dark,” he guessed.  “Is that what you’re thinking about?”

She hesitated, and then nodded.

“How did you know?” she said.

He shrugged.  “I’ve had the same thought myself, the moment I touched your light magic in Weir.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before now?”

The corners of his mouth twitched.  “I suppose this is where I caution you not to play with stones in glass houses.”

Emma rolled her eyes.  She paused when another person, wrapped in a fur cloak, wandered along the edge of the square, beneath the meager awnings of the narrow buildings rising above.

“I didn’t even really think about what it could mean,” she said, when they had disappeared into an alleyway.  “What was the point?  I couldn’t _do_ anything about some purposefully vague sentence about darkness and light.  But, well…do you think it _does_ mean anything?”

Killian hummed.  A particularly harsh gust of wind sent the lantern in a wild spin, his hair turning over the top of his head, a wild curl that took years off his face.

“There’s no telling,” he said.  “Bloody seers.”

“Bloody seers,” she echoed, and he smiled.  “I don’t know what made me think about it.  The darkness…it’s strange, it’s like it’s louder here?  When they talk, I feel like I ought to look over my shoulder to see if they’re standing behind me.”

“I told you, darling, there are many practitioners in the north.  Magic is concentrated here.  After centuries in the deep, ancient pockets of water rise just off the coast before trailing south.”

He looked at her like that meant something.

“Uh, so?” she said.

“All life is born of water, all magic is born of life.  You see the connection?”  He seemed pleased when she nodded.  “Water from the deep seeps up through the ground here in the north, and populates the islands over with all sorts of magical lineages.”  He waved his hook dismissively.  “That’s my theory, anyway.”

“You have a _theory_?”

He reached up and dug behind his ear.  “Aye, well, I feel I ought to remind you that I’ve lived for quite some time, now.  There’s not much left to do but think, after so long.  And whether or not my theory is correct, the darkness _is_ more powerful here, Emma.  Only by a margin, enough to irritate.”

She frowned.  “Why didn’t you tell me this _before_?”

“It wasn’t relevant _before_.  It’s hardly relevant now.  We’ll get the darkness out of you, Swan, and then it won’t matter.”

Emma wanted to snap at him, wanted to tear her hair out.  Seers and prophecies and grandiose magical theories.  Her ship bleeding to death on a foreign shore.  Visions of Misthaven brought to ruin by whatever terrible darkness Mordred commanded with his two charms.  Killian Jones, a one man revolutionary, hiding in the dark.  Immortal curses, and growing affection, all the things in the stories her father had read to her when she was a child.  She wondered if, perhaps one day, the haze of memory would cast it all in a favorable light.

 _Can’t remember things if you’re dead_ , a voice reminded her.

She sighed.   _Thanks for that._

“Listen,” she said, “let’s just head towards the castle, alright?  I want dry clothes, I want a horse, I want a fucking…”  She waved her hands, searching.  “…cake, or something, you know, something that I don’t need.”

Killian was clearly amused.  “Cake first, then darkness.”

“In that exact order.”

He gestured for her to lead.  She was unfamiliar with the city, of course, but the castle loomed beneath the mountains, tall spires that were visible from every street.  Emma wound around the dizzying alleyways, and the castle grew closer.  Small courtyards opened at the convolution of several paths, like wheels and spokes.  She was certain it was terribly out of the way, but Killian followed her quietly, occasionally remarking on the curious architecture, the bright blue light, the unfamiliar lettering on wooden signs that hung above a few of the doors.

“I had no idea where I was going,” she said, when the paths at last led to a wide, stone street, and a bridge just beyond.  Great, stone structures that jutted from the fjord below appeared to hold it aloft.  Guards stood at attention at the other end, a crest painted in blue upon their armor, slick with rainwater, and gleaming in the light.

“That much is apparent,” Killian said.  He seemed resigned when he saw the guards, sighing down towards his feet.  “I would suggest that we be discrete – ”

“Hello!” Emma shouted.  The rain had become little more than a mist.  The cold light, the smooth stone, it caught her voice, and threw it back at her, the fjord below like a great chamber.

“ – but of course, that is not your way.”

“I _told_ you,” she said.  “I’m a Princess, I can throw my diplomatic weight around if I want.”

“And if there are spies among us?”

She rolled her eyes.  “You mean, just in case we shipwrecked in the northern isles by this city hidden in the mountains?”

He grumbled.  “Just being cautious, darling.”

Emma ignored him, and walked across the bridge with as much of an air of grace as she could manage.  Killian fell into place behind her as one of the guards approached, a reproachful expression on his face, peeking out from beneath the lip of his helmet.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said.  “There’s no passage to civilians at the moment.”

“I am Princess Emma of Misthaven,” she said, imperiously.  Behind her, Killian coughed, the sound tinged with laughter.  “I seek counsel with your…”

 _Shit_ , she thought.  King?  Queen?  Both?

“…court,” she finished, lamely.

The guard hesitated.

 _It would be easy to get him out of your way,_ a voice suggested.

Emma could feel Killian shuffle behind her, the hem of his jacket against her thigh.  She imagined the darkness spoke to him, too.

 _You don’t need magic,_ they said.   _You’ve physical power as well, you know._

Emma dug her nails into her thigh.

“Please,” she said.  “We need your help.”

The man’s eyes leapt from her to Killian, and back again.  At length, he nodded, a reserved, though pleasant, sort of look about him.

“Wait here,” he said.  

Two more guards materialized out of the shadows, and they waited while the man walked noisily along the winding path to the castle.  He was swallowed up by a great, stone wall, and the arched doors set within, braced with artfully patterned iron.  Killian inclined his head, a dark and intimidating bent to the expression on his face.  He leaned forward, until, when he spoke, his breath tickled her ear.

“Let’s hope your luck doesn’t run out, Swan.”

* * *

“Hope your luck doesn’t run out,” she mocked, hardly an hour later.

Killian gave her a _look_ , not altogether unkind, a smile teasing at the corners of his eyes.  They had been brought to the castle, through a winding array of hallways, and left to wait in an antechamber.  There were sure to be guards at either door, should they try to leave, but the room itself was empty.  Even the furnishings were sparse.  Emma wondered what it had been for.  A reception area, or a dining room, something like that.  The floors were rough stone, which leant the room the air of a ruin, perfectly intact though it was.  There was a fireplace, at least, crackling away in one corner.  Instead of the harsh blue light that shone in the city, the castle – or that room, at least – was bathed in a warm, orange glow.

“What do you think these are?” Emma said, turning slowly about the room as she looked at the ceiling.  Like every other building in the city, its roof was steepled, the angle gentle enough to allow for paintings to fill the empty space.  They were colorful, if not indecipherable, streaks of color that appeared to depict nothing in particular.

Killian followed her line of sight.

“The last things we see before we die,” he said.

Emma rolled her eyes as she wandered back and forth.  “You’re ridiculous.”

He caught her arm when next she passed.  Emboldened by her expression, perhaps, his hand slid up her arm, and to her shoulder.  He pulled her closer, until, when he breathed, the lapels of his coat nudged against her chest.

“Are you sure about this?” he said.

Emma nodded, slowly, her eyes flickering over his face.  “Yeah.”

“Why?”

She tilted her head, and he mirrored.  From so close a vantage, she could watch the minute twitches of his lips, the way his eyes narrowed, then relaxed, then narrowed again.  The way his nostrils flared, and how his hair, drying in the open air, curled, and caught at his lashes.

“It’s rude to sneak through someone’s kingdom without asking,” she said.

Killian snorted in her face.  He looked like he might apologize, so she reached up to tug at his hair, her palm drawing over his jaw before resting on his chest.  Wry hair tickled at the very tips of her fingers.  She pressed down upon his heart, and he made a noise.  It rumbled in his belly, and she leaned forward until she could feel it against her own.

“Allies,” she said, more sensibly.  “Asking for help, giving when asked, just tricks of the ambassador trade.  And the trick of them is, they’re _not_ tricks.”

He smiled, and she felt him lay his hand upon her hip.

“You’re much wiser than I could ever hope to be,” he said, softly.

“I doubt you mean that.”

“Oh,” he said, and his eyes did not lie, “but I do.”

Emma opened her mouth to reply.  In the quiet, in the moments that lived between the fighting and the running and the searching, it was easy to drift to him.  She had wondered, at first, if it wasn’t a compulsion born of necessity.  Sorrow and dire circumstances, a foreign presence living in her mind, like a parasite, making her long for a companion, _any_ companion.  But the longer she was with him, she began to realize that, she did not lean on him simply because he was there.  She leaned on him because he felt like home.

“The Queen will see you now.”

A voice, young and sharp, drifted through an open door.  Emma was slow to disentangle.  And though, for the sake of formality, perhaps, she should have presented herself with some measure of decorum, the cold resignation of a diplomat at work, she could not bear to be parted with Killian in full.  So, she held onto his hook.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“Princess,” the Queen greeted, when they were brought into another chamber, this one larger than the last, and much livelier.  The fireplace was set in the very center of the outer wall, roaring bright and warm by two, stained-glass windows.  They tinkled pleasantly with the sound of the rain.  There were several chairs set near the open flames.  But the Queen stood, a curious expression on her face.  She wore rich, blue fabrics, the same color as the crest on the guard’s armor.

“Queen…”  Emma hesitated.

“Elsa,” the woman supplied, not unkindly.  “And you are Emma.”

Emma nodded, a bit chagrined that the Queen knew of her, but that she did not know of the Queen.  “Not to dispense with the formalities _too_ quickly, but my, uh, friend and I, we need your help.”

Elsa did not respond, not at first.  She looked at Emma, and then to Killian, lingering there before looking back.

“You are of _Misthaven_ ,” she said, slowly.

Emma resisted the urge to snap at the woman.

 _We don’t have time for this,_ she thought.

 _Wouldn’t be lingering if you had only killed the guards_ , a voice hissed. _And now your fate rests in the hand of this woman, by your own folly._

“Yes, of Misthaven,” Emma said, through her teeth.

Elsa’s face fell.  “I’ve heard rumors from my correspondence to the south.  They say that Camelot means to declare war on Misthaven.  If you’re here for aid, I’m afraid we’re not much of a military power.  If you’re here for shelter, or supplies, then it’s freely given.”

Emma smiled, ruefully.

 _See, she’s_ nice _,_ she argued.  The darkness did not respond.

“That’s kind of you,” Emma said.  “But it’s just the two of us.  We mean to travel to the west, to find a wizard.  All we ask is your permission, a horse or two, and maybe a change of clothing?”

Elsa nodded at their request, and gestured at one of her guards.  The woman bowed, and moved quickly from the room.

“Of course,” Elsa said.  “But I have to ask, why do you seek the wizard?”

“It was something…”

_…a seer told us.  Oh, and also some blood magic, lost heirs, decades long spells of concealment, the word of prophets and magicians._

“…it will help us avoid war,” Emma finished.  Then, quietly, a break in her voice, “I can’t let my people fall into battle, not again.”

Elsa inclined her head, a solemn expression and a regal air.  Emma felt that the woman understood her.  She could feel the lonely magic that clung to Elsa’s skin.  It breathed heavily in the room around them, cold and unyielding.  Not unlike the darkness, demanding to be known.

“There are several wizards here in the north,” Elsa said.  “The cold appears to breed magic.”  Killian nudged Emma’s side, as if to say _I told you so._  “But there is only one in the west.”  Elsa hesitated.  “There are…legends.”

Emma leaned forward.  “Legends?”

“Yes.  Some say he is kind.  Others say differently.   _Quite_ differently.  Take caution, Princess.  There are no honorable men who would garner such rumors.  Do _not_ trust him.”

Emma wasn’t sure how to respond.   _We have no choice._

“Okay…” she said, instead.

“I must confess, he once left my sister unharmed, sent her home to me with…”  Elsa hesitated, and twirled the gossamer fabric of her dress in her hands, as though she were trying to conceal them.  “…she came home safe.  Desperate people seek him out, and they are never quite the same.  That is all I know for certain.”

Emma was surprised, and judging by the hard press of Killian’s hook into her back, his shallow breath down the back of her neck, so was he.

 _Well, we are pretty desperate,_ she thought.

 _Perhaps you ought to turn back_ , a voice cautioned.

 _Before you’ll never quite be the same as well,_ said another.

She frowned.   _I’ll already never be the same._

“It’s too late to turn back now,” she said, simply.  She wanted to be on the road.  The more they lingered, the greater the chance that more of Mordred’s soldiers would appear, searching the island high and low.  “I know this is pretty much the _height_ of rudeness, but…well, we really ought to go as soon as we can.  We’re running on a clock.”

Elsa nodded.  “Yes, of course, I understand.  The guard will bring your clothing to this very room, and leave you be.  If you want for anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“There is one other thing,” Killian said, gruffly.  “Our…that is, the Princess’s ship, he’s in something of a state on your shore.”

Emma had not planned to ask for any aid for her ship.  She didn’t think it was important enough, but Killian was clearly determined.

“A state?” Elsa said.

“Uh, yeah.”  Emma glanced down at her feet, color rising in her cheeks.  “We sort of…missed the docks.  A little bit.”

“Make sure no more harm comes to him?” Killian said, as close to a polite request as Emma imagined he ever would get.

Elsa tilted her head.  “Him?”

“ _Jack_ ,” he answered, as though he himself hadn’t found it absurd only days ago.  “The ship.”

Elsa was very obviously amused, but agreed.  She seemed to require nothing else, and bid them a quiet goodnight, her intricate braid swinging over her shoulder when she turned towards the door.

“Wait,” Emma said, quietly.  She stepped forward, and reached out, a half-aborted gesture that appeared to startle the Queen.  Emma let her hands fall back to her sides.  Though the darkness struggled within, whispering all sorts of terrible things in her ears, she allowed herself to shine through.  The hurt, the ache of missing home, an uncertain future, all of it stinging in her eyes, and twisting her face.

“Why are you helping us?” Emma said.

Elsa mirrored, a brief, and vulnerable expression, before she stood tall, the straight-backed posture of a Queen.

“Misthaven is a beacon of hope,” Elsa said.  “Not much news of the south reaches Arendelle, but I have heard tell of the wars it has suffered, of the King and Queen who prevailed.  I know what it is to have your sovereignty challenged.  It has been…a process of learning, but I like to think I recognize thieves and liars when they appear before me.  You are neither of those.”

_I suppose she doesn’t recognize murderers.  Pity for her._

Emma’s jaw cracked beneath the pressure of her teeth, but she smiled all the same.

“Thank you,” she said.

Elsa smiled in answer, softly, before she turned towards the doors, and wandered back into the depths of her great castle.  Emma blew out a long, cool breath.

“I hate talking to royalty,” she said.  She looked up at Killian, who seemed both troubled and fondly exasperated.

“Two things about that,” he said.  “You _are_ royalty, first, and second, you’re a bloody ambassador.  Is talking to royalty not your occupation?”

She shrugged.  “It’s mostly sea travel, wandering around in new cities, that sort of thing.”

He laughed, a quiet husky sound, one that continued to echo when a guard appeared, and laid their clothes out upon the table.  He nodded, kindly.

“The Queen has ordered two horses for the lower bridge,” he said.  “They will be waiting when you are ready.”

“Thank you,” Emma said.  She nearly laughed when he blushed, and stammered out of the room, along with two others.

“Your wiles strike again, Swan,” Killian said.  He began to tear at his clothes, unabashed.  His coat, he draped carefully over a chair near the fire.  His shirt and vest, however, found themselves in a pile upon the table.  Emma tugged half-heartedly at her own clothing while she watched him pluck at the convolution of straps that held his brace fast to his wrist.  It was a complicated affair, one that he clearly did not undo often.  At last, that too joined his jacket over a chair, and she watched the light of the fire flicker over his back, drawn over with scar tissue, hardly a swath of skin left untouched.  He paused, and looked over his shoulder.

“Now you know why,” he said, quietly, before he turned back to the clothing the guard had left.

A few steps brought Emma within arm’s reach of him.  “Why what?”

“Why I didn’t want you to see.”

She snorted, undignified, and he looked back at her, a quirk in his brow.

“You think _scars_ put me off?  My entire childhood was one battle after another.  There’s nothing you could show me that would stop me.”

Killian turned, stepped closer, leaning over her.  “Stop you from what?”

 _Oops_ , she thought.

“From…”

_From touching you, knowing you...more, perhaps._

She said none of this aloud, but he did not press her, simply tilted his head and glanced down at her lips.  He lifted his left arm, where solid flesh ended abruptly in a knot of tissue.

He gestured at it.  “Even this?”

Emma said nothing, and did not look away from his face when she touched the blunted wrist, fingers drawing up his arm and over his shoulder, until they reached the fine, swooping hairs at the back of his neck.  He breathed out against her temple, breath washing down over her face.  She tugged at a loop in his belt, until he leaned against her, his prickly jaw scratching her cheek.  She peered at the fresh clothes folded neatly on the table.  He seemed to know what she was thinking before she said it aloud.

“I don’t need your help,” he said, a faint air of petulance.  Emma pulled away, just far enough to look into his eyes.

 _Care for me?_ they said.

“Okay,” she said.  “Do you want it anyway?”

“Yes,” he answered, simply.

Reluctant to draw away from him, she reached around and grabbed his brace.

“Why did you take this off?” she said.

“Salt,” he said.

“Oh.”  Emma shook her head.   _Of course._  She carefully brushed away the crust from the leather, and then from his skin, before tugging the straps into place, and then _again_ when she inevitably tangled them in knots.  His shirt and vest came next, the former a rich cream, the latter a deep blue, the color of the sky on a clear, dry day.  The buttons on the shirt were heavy, and sparse, but still she lazily pulled it over his head, his hair coming wild out the other end.  He smiled, soft and crinkly, and the darkness was noticeably quiet.  Emma tried twice to button up the vest, too stiff to tug over his head.  Both times, the buttons were mismatched, and she tugged them back open.

“Do you regret letting me do this?” she said.

“A little,” he lied.

Emma didn’t so much give up, as she was distracted by the expression on his face, fondness and darkness and light and contentment, all coiled around him.  Like the maze he’d built within, only out where she could see.  She touched the wrinkled skin by his eyes, and the dimples in his cheek, the whorls of his ear, and the curl of his hair beneath.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

He nodded.  “Aye, love, me too.”

“Do you really think…”  She trailed off, but Killian clearly knew what she meant.

“You can do anything,” he answered her half-spoken question with conviction.  She could almost _feel_ the darkness claw away at his bones, but he did not falter.  He looked like he wanted to kiss her, licking his lips, eyes roaming over her face.  When he spoke again, she could almost feel it against her mouth.  “Can you promise me something, Swan?”

She hesitated.  “I can try.”

“When you know me, when everything I am or was is before you…can you promise to remember how you thought of me now, in this moment?”

Emma wrinkled her nose, confused.  “What the hell does _that_ mean?”

He shook his head.  “Can you promise me?”

 _Whenever will his secrets stop spilling over?_ the darkness wondered, mocking.

 _One day, dearie, you will see him as we see him.  A_ coward.

Perhaps making a promise out of spite wasn’t the best idea.  She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she answered him, softly –

“Okay.”

Killian kissed her, then, and it felt a little desperate at first, just a hard press of his lips against hers.  She scratched lightly at his neck, and he sighed into her mouth, opening to her.  She pushed at his chest until he leaned back on the table behind him, the bend in his knees enough that she didn’t have to stand on her toes.  He was pliant beneath her touch, passive save for the hand at her back, tugging at her shirt until he could splay his hand over her skin.  He made a series of noises in the back of his throat, each of them following the stroke of her tongue.  When she pulled away, she did not go far, her lips still brushing against his.  His back was rough beneath her hands, his chest soft.  He was many things at once, and when she leaned forward, he caught her, his wrist against her thigh.  She spoke against his cheek, rising and falling as he breathed.

“I promise.”

* * *

“I don’t think my horse likes me very much,” Emma said.  

The beast beneath her was tall, taller than any horse she’d ever ridden.  Regina never did have much success helping her learn to ride.  She preferred the sea, or her own two feet.  Arendelle’s horses were sturdy, thick legs and heavy flanks that lended them well to the steep, and often unsteady, terrain of the mountains.  Like any creature, they were also intelligent, alert.  As if sensing her preference for the sea, the animal did exactly as he pleased, and nothing more.

“You’re agitated,” Killian said.  “It’s no wonder.  Just relax.”

She grumbled.  Her own horse, at least, seemed attached to Killian’s, and so she didn’t worry that she would lose the trail.  It was _he_ who was familiar with the north, enough to lead them into the west just by the rudimentary map she kept in her pocket.  

So, absent any responsibility, she simply watched the swaths of forest, and peaks of rock, go by.  It was a beautiful country.  Desolate, and quiet, but vivid.  On occasion, birds of prey would fly overhead, their cries echoing sharply in the mountain air.  The sheer faces of the mountain were still overlain with snow, and when, after hours of travel, the storm abated, and the stars peeked through, they appeared blue in the moonlight, lifeless.  The mountains that Emma knew were lush, gradual knots in the land covered in forest and shrub.

“I can see why hardly anyone lives here,” Emma said, when they passed a frozen lake.  The ice, swelling with the thaw, jutted up in sharp relief from the water.  It looked deadly, as though made of broken glass.

“But at the same time,” she added, looking to the first light over the peaks, a touch of color, red as fresh blood upon the horizon, “I can see why someone would live here.”

Killian looked at her over his shoulder.  He smiled, faintly, but he did not reply.  He turned back to look at the stars, perhaps drinking them in before they disappeared.

“Three days,” he had said, when Emma asked how long the journey would take.  Half a day had passed, and he’d hardly said anything else besides.  She could guess what troubled him.

_When you know me, when everything I am or was is before you…_

_Secrets_ , the darkness told her.   _Like a dragon hoarding his treasure._

_He could not give them up, not even for you._

Though they spoke loudly, and she felt anticipation curling in her belly, Emma did her best to ignore them.  

The further west they travelled, the thinner the line of the forest became.  The clatter of hooves against the rock, the crush of snow underneath, everything echoed harshly in the thin air and against the resplendent mountainsides.

“My brother would love it here,” she said, when the sun had risen above the peaks, warm, early spring light that began to melt the snow.

Killian startled at the sound of her voice.  His horse shook its head, pausing to shuffle its mighty feet, before continuing down along the lip of a gorge, the sheer drop many fathoms high.  Water, quick and crystalline, flowed along a stony bed below, catching the sunlight.  When he looked at her, the pupils of his eyes were neat pin pricks, deep blue shining back.

“Would he?” he said, softly.

“Oh, yeah, he loves winter.  He used to let the dogs out of their barn whenever it snowed.  He’d be soaking wet, half frozen to death, and laughing while my mother carried him in.”

Killian laughed, and he turned back to the trail.  It appeared as though he would remain quiet, and Emma sighed.

Then, finally, “I was never partial to the cold, myself.”

“Me neither.”

“Of course – ”  He flicked his ear, and flexed his hand, neither of them frost bitten or swollen, as they should have been.  “ – I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Emma frowned.  “It will if you give up the darkness.”

A half-smile flashed briefly on his face.  “Aye, you’re right, I suppose it will.”

Troubled, Emma urged her horse to keep stride with Killian’s.  Miraculously, he obeyed, and she reached out, laying her hand on Killian’s thigh.

“Whatever you’re not telling me, whatever secrets…”  She could hear harsh, unnatural laughter in the back of her mind.  He looked up at her, sharply, at the word _secrets_.  “…it doesn’t matter anymore.  I’ve _told_ you.”

He did not answer her for some time, apparently focused on navigating the narrow ledges, until the gorge emptied into another pond.  After just one day, the thin ring of mountains that hid Arendelle from the rest of the island began to slope gently, a sudden change in the landscape, down towards sea level.  Trees were sparse, standing lonely in patches of thin soil.

“I know that, Swan,” he said, when the land levelled out.  “Whatever the darkness may tell you, I don’t have _secrets_.  I have…history.”  He paused, and looked over at her, their horses lumbering slowly along the easy terrain.  “One day, Emma, I swear to you, I will tell you my story, every single day of it, if that is your wish.”

Emma nodded slowly, and he seemed satisfied.

“Well,” she said, “maybe not _every_ day.  Skip to the good stuff.”

Killian laughed.

* * *

The hours passed much more quickly than in the tower keep in Weir, even more so than their time at sea.  Though they did not need the rest, their horses did, and from time to time, Killian would insist upon helping her down from hers –

“I can tell you don’t like horses, Swan,” he would say, when she grumbled indignantly.

“I like them just fine, they just don’t like _me_.”

– and they would sit upon the ground.  The cold would bleed into their skin, but the sun was warm on their dark clothing.  He would ask after her brother, and her parents, listening intently when she told him of life in a castle, so very different than life on the run.  In turn, Killian would tell her about his own brother.  Often, he would drape himself over her, leaning his head against her back, his hook looped around her arm.  When he spoke, she could feel it against her ribs, vibrating down into her belly.  He would sigh when they left, reluctantly pulling away to mount his horse, freshly rested, and fed from the stores in their packs.

On the afternoon of the third day, the sea at last came into view, and they could see the coastline, sloping north and then south.  The water was the color of stone, a faint blue cast over gray.  The trees had disappeared, shrubs and marshland undulating wildly across the landscape, at the base of a lone mountain far in the distance.

“This looks familiar,” she said, curious.  The darkness chattered loudly, but it was entirely indecipherable.  The meager sounds of the relative wasteland grew louder, as the day she had been bound to the blade at her side, ambient noise screeching over everything else.  It clawed away at her mind.

“Aye,” Killian said, gazing forth and nowhere else.

Emma remembered the ship, the keep in Weir, the Isle, Camelot, the vault –

 _The vault_ , she thought.  The darkness prodded at her, and an echo of searing pain erupted in her blood, followed by the image of a castle coaxed from a mountain, wasteland all around, a vision wrought as the liquid darkness had poured into her blood.  Stunned, she followed where Killian led, until the very same mountain from that vision came into view.  Around the southeastern edge, a great stone structure appeared.  A door, a voice, a figure in black.

“What _is_ this place?” she said, when Killian took her hand, and led her down from her horse.  He gestured for her to lead.

“The wizard’s castle,” he answered.

“I _know_ , but…I’ve seen it before, when I was turned into the Dark One.”

When they reached the doors, he took the handle and tugged.  They protested, groaning from age and sheer weight.

“I imagine so,” Killian said.  He waited for her to enter, but Emma hesitated.  She held her breath, and recalled the vision so vividly, a moment so much like this that she wondered if time had not coiled up, spinning round and round like a broken pendulum.  Fear, sharp and heady, pooled at her spine.  Even so, with the sun at her back, the unnaturally elevated sound of the water beating at the shoreline, she stood tall, and walked through the door. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love and devotion to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! They feed my writerly soul. Warnings for this chapter: Smut

When the doors slammed shut behind them, a sense of foreboding settled in Emma’s stomach.

_A powerful wizard_ , the seer had said.   _It is he who can give you what you seek._

Looking around the castle, she wasn’t quite so sure.  It was unlike anywhere she’d ever been.  There weren’t rooms, only levels, several of them, blocks of stone that jutted from the sheer mountainside, parallel to the floor.  They rose higher than she could see.  The ground floor was nearly the size of her parent’s throne room.  Every sound she made echoed harshly back at her.  The furnishings were meager, but neat.  A long wooden table sat at one end of the room, carved from a rich and heavy pine, the earthy smell drifting along the cold stone.  A great fireplace was at the other end, a utilitarian and orderly set about the rough-hewn blocks.  There were several windows carved into the walls, thin slits that cast shafts of light along the upper levels.  It was enough to see by, at least.  

When they stepped upon a dais, the fireplace roared to life.  The candles in the sconces on the walls snapped, flames flickering from nowhere.

Startled, Emma turned, looking for the spell’s originator.

“It’s an enchantment,” Killian explained.

Emma nodded absently, and searched the room.  But there was hardly anywhere to hide.  The levels above were too high to climb.  The ground floor was too spartan to provide any protection.

“Aldan?” she called.  When she heard no reply, she nearly growled.  “ _Fuck_.  She’s not here.  This is the _worst_ place I’ve ever been.”

“To be fair, Swan,” he said, darkly, “I wasn’t expecting any company before I left.”

Emma stopped in her search, and turned to look at him.  He moved easily around the room, looked past the details as though he had seen them many times before.

_I imagine so_ , he had said, cryptically, just moments ago.  She had ignored him, suspecting he fed off the dramatic posture of the castle, speaking esoteric nonsense, as he seemed wont to do.

“You know this place,” she said.

It was not a question.  Still, he answered, “I do.”

“How?”

Killian led her to the uneven walls at the back, where shelves stretched in three long rows.  Trinkets and potions and tools of all sorts lined them from top to bottom.  Emma recognized many of them, from her studies.  Many were dark, and dangerous, meant to do terrible things.  Several of the shelves carried jars, some filled with the remains of animals…some with eyes or hands.  Magic, insidious and heady, filled her nostrils, a stench like decay.

“When you were first bound to the sword,” Killian said, walking from shelf to shelf, “I thought perhaps death had come for me.  It was a brief, pleasant thought.  You were an angel.  Light like I’d never seen bathed these walls, poured in through the front door.  It was as though you were here, walking the halls beside me.  You disappeared, abruptly, and then I _knew_.”

Emma’s stomach dropped.  As though detached from her body, she followed him until he reached a pedestal near the back wall.  When he laid his hand upon the stand, it unfurled, block by little block.  A great book appeared, bound in leather, a sharp pen at its side.  He opened it, and deep, red lettering marked the pages.  It was a ledger, she realized, debts owed and repaid, in one form another.  Only, instead of gold, or jewels, there were items.  Some of them seemingly mundane, others cruel and gruesome.

“Killian,” she breathed.  Then, uselessly, she asked,  “Where is the wizard?”

He laid his hand upon the book.  Emma could feel his mind unfurl, the great labyrinth he kept within unlocking passage by passage.  Just like the structure around them, and the pedestal at his side, he opened to her.  There was not a thing she could not see, past and present.  Revenge and magic, an insatiable desire for payment, watching as he became the very thing he despised most of all.  A terror in self-exile, tasting the desperation of the people who came to him, twisting it to suit his own need.  And oh, what a need it was, deep, deep in his bones, clawing day and night to break free.  She watched him, inside and out, as he stepped closer.

“I am the wizard,” he answered.

* * *

All at once, Killian had never felt quite so free, and quite so caged.  Where once he and Emma were of two minds, grinding together under the weight of immortal darkness, now they were one.

Before he had discovered who she was, and what she wanted, he had allowed his mind to slip freely into hers, keeping select pieces of himself behind locked doors.  The darkness had welcomed the additional soul, at first, rising from the vault with an incredible power running through her veins.

_A payment_ , they had whispered.   _A reward._

“For what?” he’d said.

_Time._

Time that he had lived with the object of his hatred in his mind.  Time after which he had grown restless, festering in his obsession with revenge.  A long chain of desperate people, generations passing him by, coming to him and asking for power, love, absolution, any number of things.  Under the guise of giving, he took, demanding payment, not quite realizing until it was too late that he had become the demon he so despised.

Until Emma appeared, and he pretended he could be something else.

_That’s all it ever was, dearie, an elaborate game of pretend.  She’ll never forgive you._

“Good,” he whispered back.

“You are the wizard,” Emma said, quietly, numbly.  He watched her mouth shape the words again and again.  He did not have to wonder what she thought.  A series of images leapt through her mind.  The moment they had met, the start of their journey, a blur of trees and danger and an unknowable magic in Mordred’s two charms.  In turn, he allowed her to see.  The gush of royal blood at his feet, his beloved _Jolly Roger_ lost to his rage, following the pull of his magic to the reaches of the North.  He’d tugged the castle out of the lone mountain’s side, drowning in magic, drawing first the attention of the curious, then of the envious, the greedy, the murderous.  All manner of sins laid at his feet by the people who came to him, none left unsatisfied.  Emma seemed to watch his memories with detached fascination, her quick mind turning over and over as she looked at him.  The _real_ him.

“Why?” she said, hoarsely.  “ _Why_ didn’t you just tell me?”

Killian circled the pedestal, and gestured to the shelves, the unreachable levels of the castle stretching high above.

“Look around, Emma,” he said.  “What do you see?”

He felt her in his mind, walking from memory to memory, and he watched her wander through his castle, looking at all of his spoils, an obsessive collection he’d built as the decades passed him by.  Rumpelstiltskin, the vile creature, he laughed and laughed, a shrill and interminably familiar sound that echoed in the great hall.

“Debts,” she said, at length.  “Debts repaid.  Like…”  She swallowed, skin stretching taut over the long line of her neck.  When she looked up at him, she was disbelieving, frightened even.

_Never forgive you,_ the voices whispered.

Emma looked him up and down, before her eyes came to rest on his.  “Like Rumpelstiltskin before you.”

Killian hummed.  Magic crackled at his fingertips.  The darkness, let loose, poured like ink through his veins.  The shape of her mouth, the touch of her hands, her body against his, all stained with the secret he’d kept locked away, so deep that, for a time, even _he_ did not believe it.

“You claimed not to care about the past, that it was behind me,” he said.  “You said that you only cared for who I am _now_.  Well, Swan, _this_ is who I am.  It was easy to pretend, with you, that I could leave it behind.  You were born of the light, and the light heals...but there are some wounds that can never heal, some sins that cannot be forgiven.  Some shadows that cannot be banished.”

Emma stepped closer, and he could feel the tremor in his hand, a pain in his chest.  As every day, every hour, every _moment_ , he craved the magic.  And when it did not come, the darkness _shrieked_ , a terrible cry that plucked at his nerves.  They tugged him every which way, told him to keep her close, to push her away, to let her be, to follow wherever she might lead.  The man, the young sailor he had been, was nearly silenced, save for one declaration.

_I only want you._

“I don’t believe that,” Emma said, nearly spat it in his face.  “ _Why_ didn’t you tell me?  And _stop_ being cryptic, it’s ridiculous.”

He sneered, and the voices of the darkness grew louder.

“I _saw_ your face when you learned what I had done to my kingdom,” he said, leaning over her, a step above her on the dais.  She was not cowed.  “For a moment, you were frightened of me.  But then you offered to turn time itself over on its head, to only look forward, and not back.  Only, what lay forward from there…”  He dug his hook into the stone that held his ledger, the very tip scraping along the delicately arched surface.  “I did _not_ lay idle for all the decades after I tore my own kingdom apart.  I longed for revenge, I _craved_ it, and so I holed away where only those desperate enough could find me.  I told myself it was atonement, that I could hide the darkness, stow it away where it could not wreak havoc.  It found a way, _I_ found a way.”

Killian leaned back, and when he breathed, the room breathed with him.

“I gave in,” he said.  “With you, I felt like I could be the man you thought I was.  Instead of this _pathetic_ excuse for a Dark One, hiding away like a bloody coward.”

The shadows on the ground began to coalesce, pooling upon the floor.  Emma paid them no mind.  She looked at him like she saw him.

“Liar,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“I said you’re a _liar_ , Killian Jones.”

Emma stepped closer, and the careful expression he’d worn since the moment they walked through the doors began to crumble.  He turned away so that she would not see, and paced aimlessly towards the fireplace, the shadows following him as he went.

“Bloody _stubborn_ woman,” he said, through his teeth.

“ _I’m_ stubborn?”  She followed close behind.  “I can see what you’re doing, I can _see_ you, the same way that you can see me.   _You_ see a man who gave into darkness, gleefully, and I see a man who tried to hide it away.  He failed, but Killian, you are _not_ a monster.  You _want_ to give up the darkness.  I heard you say it, and I know when you’re lying to me.”

Killian stopped, abruptly, and Emma nearly ran into him when he rounded on her.

“Don’t you _dare_ try to justify the things I did, Emma.  I couldn’t bear it.”  Then, quietly, “Don’t follow me into darkness.”

“I swear to the gods, you are the _most_ infuriating person ever born.  I am not justifying the things you did, I never could.  What I’m telling you is that it’s not too late to change.  You asked me what I see?  Well, _this_ is what I see.  You’re desperate to become something else.  When the darkness begged to be free, you exiled it, _and_ yourself, to the North, trying to atone.  You did a _terrible_ job of it, but it’s not too late.”

Killian was aghast, listening as the woman he surely loved defended him to his face.  Passion, immutable and bright, spilled out of her mouth.

“Well isn’t this precious.”

The shadows at their feet rose from the floor, as though climbing out of the earth.  The twisted darkness took form, wearing Rumpelstiltskin’s face.  He smiled at Killian, sharp and inhuman teeth peeking out from behind discolored lips.  When he laughed, it was like rough stones against glass.  Killian felt cowed in its presence.

Emma, clearly, was only frustrated.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” she said.

Rumpelstiltskin laughed, turning gleefully in place.  The firelight caught on his opalescent skin.

“It seemed like the appropriate time for a history lesson,” he said.  He snapped his fingers, and the book that sat upon the pedestal appeared in his hands.  He began to flip through the pages.  “My personal favorite is when he demanded a child as payment for the means with which to break a powerful curse.  But let’s start at the beginning, shall we?”

Killian closed his eyes, and hung his head.

_The babe will go to a family that will actually care for him,_ he’d argued, at the time.

_Who are_ you _to make such a decision?_

Who was he, indeed.  Each sin listed out, a record drawn in his own blood, permanence that only death could erase.

“A hand, an eye, the blood of a most beloved,” Rumpelstiltskin went on.  “All of these festering here, a library of torment.  Tell me, dearie, which sin will satisfy you?  Which will turn you away?”

Killian opened his eyes when he realized the beast spoke to Emma.  Her expression was furious, underlain with a sense of calm.  She listened for some time, and the fingers of her right hand curled up behind her knuckles.

“Stop,” she warned.

The darkness laughed.  “I don’t think so.”

Killian watched – both disbelieving, and yet _not_ – when Emma leapt forward, and punched the apparition square in the jaw.  It did not so much connect, as it banished the shadows, crawling back from whence they came.  The ledger, heavy beyond its natural weight, fell to the ground with a sickening thud, wet like flesh and bone. It laid open, and Killian reached down.  His hand shook, violently, and the pages rustled when he picked it up, and opened it up to a recent entry.  He walked, slowly, back to the pedestal, and let it lay.  Emma joined him, as he knew she would.  His eyes stung, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

“Sorry, I uh…”  She tugged at her vest.  “…punched the darkness?  That was stupid.”

Killian shook his head.  “On the contrary, it was more than I was ever capable of doing.”  He glanced at her, and found an unbearably soft expression on her face.

_You’re a monster,_ the darkness told him.

_A magnet for death and destruction._

_Your brother could not survive you._

_You allowed your lover to die for you._

_Even your own mother withered away._

“I thought I could protect myself,” he said, over the voices of the darkness.  “A man once came to me.  His love had been cursed, hidden away where he could not follow.  He wore a coat that shimmered in a language I had come to know.  In return for helping him, I asked only for the coat.”

Emma reached out, her fingers brushing over the lapels.  The magic, as always, responded vibrantly to her touch.

“It was many decades ago,” he said.  “The magic in the fabric knows the touch of light, and falls silent in darkness.  How heavy and dark it was on my shoulders.  I thought I could use it to know the intentions of those who came to me for help.  Only...those who walk in light will step into darkness to save the ones they love.  I was a tool.  I killed, I maimed, I stole.  But with you…”  Killian sighed.  “…I pretended that I could be more.”

Emma shook her head, and she held tight to the lapels, jerking none too gently, until the toes of his boots were flush with hers.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she insisted.

“I do.  I _do_.  Rumpelstiltskin was right, I did those things, I did _all_ of them.”

“I know.”

Killian could feel his face grow hot, tears spilling down his chin.

“ _How_ can you forgive me?” he said, thickly.

“These sins aren’t mine to forgive.  I meant what I said, the past is behind you.  Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you mean what you said?  Do you want to get rid of the darkness?  Do you not want it anymore?”

He could only nod.  Emma’s hand climbed up his neck, and into his hair.  She tugged, and he bent down, far enough that he could lay his head upon her shoulder, and weep.  He had wept in these walls before.  Out of regret, sorrow, anger, tears staining his face and his clothes while the darkness mocked him.  But, in that moment, the darkness was silent.

“I love you,” he confessed.  Again, and then again, “I love you.  Please, Emma, _please_ don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” she said.  “I won’t, I swear I won’t.”

In the wake of the quiet, the darkness banished to silence by her light – the only sound in the halls his cries, and her soothing murmur – he believed her.

* * *

It was an odd change of pace, Killian thought, to be held in her arms, when he’d been so certain that she would shun him.  His sins were all in writing, in a heavy, living tome.  Treasures he’d kept, things he _hated_ , all organized neatly along the shelves in the great hall.  Things he convinced himself he needed one day, and then sneered at the next.  He was ever swinging back and forth, under the umbrella of darkness, then reaching out for something else.

When the seer had insisted there was a powerful wizard in the north, one who could _banish_ the darkness, he could _feel_ her probing his mind.

_She will lead you to the end,_ the seer had said.  

Killian had scoffed.   _The end of what?_

_To the end,_ she had repeated.   _She will lead you to the end._

He had puzzled over it on their journey, locked away where Emma could not see.  

_The end of the darkness,_ he had guessed. _Or the end of my life.  Perhaps not one without the other._

The darkness had seethed and plotted, threatened to tell his secret.  Though, for their own untold reasons – hoping, perhaps, that Emma would balk at the revelation – they never did.  It did not want to _end_ , frothing still from whatever terrible beginning it had come.  Burning him from the inside out, remembering every letter of his ledger, never hesitating to remind him.

_You can try to hide away,_ the voices would mock, _but we’re a part of you._

_We know you._

_We_ own _you._

There was not a day that had gone by, since the moment he rose from the vault – even earlier still – that he felt free.  That is, until _this_ moment.

“I’m sorry, Swan,” he said, when he finally pulled away.  He tried to reach up, to wipe the tears from his face, but she wouldn’t let go of him.  There, standing amongst the damning evidence of his wretched life, Emma wouldn’t let go.

“What for?” she said.

“I was too much of a coward to tell you.  I suppose I should have known...”

_You’re an angel,_ he thought.

She blushed, a quiet – _Thanks._ – drifting into his mind.

“You are _not_ a coward,” she said.  “Maybe…you know, kind of bullheaded, but not a coward.”

He smiled wanly, and she mirrored, her loveliest expression.  Her arms loosened around his, and she reached up to wipe the stains away from his face with her thumbs.  He was pliant beneath her touch, his lashes fluttering.

“Is that what the darkness tells you?” Emma said.  “That you’re a coward?”

He nodded, her calloused fingers rasping over his beard.  “Aye.”

“They try to convince me that my family hates me.”

Killian opened his eyes, and he reached out to touch her, the backs of his fingers trailing over her face, along the slope of her neck.

“How do you push them away?” he said, quietly.

“Well, first of all, fuck them, my family _loves_ me.”

He laughed.  “If only I could convince myself with the same ease.”

“Second, I look at _you_.  You can curb the darkness, I’ve seen you do it.”

Killian frowned, and looked over her shoulder, at nothing in particular.  “It has always found a way to act through me, nonetheless.”

Emma shrugged, and leaned closer, until he could feel her breath upon his face, cool and wet.  She smelled like the alpine air, cold and severe.  The darkness, quiet and resigned, seemed to stir, but Killian ignored it, and instead thought of mundane things.  He thought of the way her hair fell over her shoulders, a messy braid that had been tangled by the wind and the frost.  He thought of her eyes as well, how she seemed to carry the forest with her.  Above all else, he thought of how he loved her, and how, whatever _the end_ might be, he would happily follow.

“It did,” she agreed, though she passed no judgment.  She sighed, and tilted her head back, her throat bared to him while she peered at the upper levels.  “Anyway, this was a dead end.”

Killian sighed wearily, grateful for the change in subject.

“She may not be here, Swan, but she _was_ here.  Blood magic does not lie.  That collection over there carries all sorts of artifacts.  She could have wanted for any number of things.”

“I think she wanted _you_.”  Emma paused, and made a face.  “In a less suggestive way than that sounded.”

He laughed, softly.  He’d grown paradoxically accustomed to being surprised by her.

“You amaze me,” he said.  With nothing to cover him up, nothing between them, every thought in his head seemed to pour out of his mouth.  “You’re a _wonder_.”

She blushed, and Killian followed the bloom of color with his thumb.

“Perhaps we should search,” he said.  He leaned back, meaning to step away, but Emma held fast.  He tilted his head, curious.  “Swan?”

“I know,” she said.  “I know we should search.  But can we just…rest?  I know we can’t sleep, but I’m just so…”  Emma closed her eyes, briefly.  “I can only learn and do so many momentous things in so many days.  For just _one hour_ , I don’t want to think about this.  I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Killian nodded.  He certainly knew what she meant.  Her eyes were bright, and her skin was drawn and pale.  He held out his hook, and she took it, following him to a wide swath of blank wall near the back of the room.  He laid his hand upon the stone, and it trembled in recognition.  An archway, ornate and out of place, warped into the stone, pulling away from a hall that led into the mountain.

“Wow,” Emma said.  “Another enchantment?”  

Her voice echoed neatly along the walls.  He only nodded in reply.  The stone door disappeared behind them, and the sconces on the walls came to life.  They were made of fine brass, brushed over with whimsical finery.  Paintings hung on the wall, of lush jungles and wide meadows.  Clear and gentle seas, all things that were far from the castle.

“Sometimes,” he said, “it was good to feel normal.  Like I had a home.  I’d never had anything like this when I was a child, but I remembered places I had seen in my travels.  The modest homes of those who longed only for peace.”  

Killian paused when he could feel Emma’s fingers fall away from his hook.  When he turned, he found her gazing at one of the paintings on the wall.

“You really like flowers, huh,” she said.

He came to stand behind her, close in the narrow hallway.  It was a simple painting that had caught her eye, a vibrant blue flower spilling down the banks of a quiet river, the reflection of a mighty forest quivering in the water.

“Forget-me-nots,” Emma said, reaching out to touch the thick, textured paint.  “Sorry I’m touching your painting, I just…want to.”

“It’s quite alright, Swan.  I would give it to you, if you asked.  You could have anything here that you wanted.”

She turned to look at him, a sly look on her face.  Even exhausted, she was radiant.  The candlelight fell over the angles of her cheeks, and her jaw.  Her eyes twinkled.  Out of habit, he listened for the reproach of the darkness before he smiled.  When none came, and he grinned down at her, she wrapped her fingers around his hook, and he led her to something of an alcove at the end of the hall.  The stone walls and warm light flared out and into a pale imitation of a cottage.  There were no windows, but there was a simple fireplace at one end, uneven river stone around the mantle and upon the hearth.  There was a rug on the floor.  An oaken table and chair, not unlike those that had been in the cabin of the _Jolly Roger_ , held the rug in place.  A few shelves, largely barren, were against the wall.

More than anything else, Killian favored a plush, overlarge and high-backed armchair near the fire.  On the rare days when the darkness was quiet, briefly sated, he would sit and slouch, limbs splayed out.  He would lay back, close his eyes, and look through old, sun-drenched memories, a facsimile of dreams.

“I’m being selfish,” she said, while she moved about the room.  He stood near the entrance, and watched her.

“Selfish?” he echoed.

“My family’s in danger.  We need to look for the heir.  War will be upon them… _in a week_.  And yet, here I am.”

“It’s not selfish to rest, Swan.”

“But I don’t _need_ it.”

Killian stepped deeper into the room, interrupting her circuit.  She smiled, a faint and beautiful expression, and laid her hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t mistake sleep for rest,” he said.

Emma tilted her head, and for some time, she only looked at him.  Her hands did not wander, as they often did.  She chewed on the inside of her lip, her eyes leapt between his, then down his jaw, his neck, lingering on his chest.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

When he nodded, she pulled him closer, and he could feel her breath tickle his neck.

“I just…”  She hesitated, her hands twisting up in the fabric of his coat, the runes flaring brightly.  “…I want to see you.  I want to _know_ you.  Is that alright?”

Killian did not answer, not right away.  He listened for the voices of darkness, for them to cajole him, or pull him back.  For them to mock his hesitance, to tell him how Emma could bring him to ruin.  They had often done so before, trying to tear them apart.  Light incarnate, brighter than the evening stars...he could see why they did not want her near.  He could see it in her eyes, in the shape of her mouth, in the expressions she wore, a variety of emotions all underlain with unyielding single-mindedness.

_Often to your own detriment_ , he thought fondly, a warm flush of affection in his belly.

The darkness, it said nothing.

“Aye,” he said.  He took her hand and laid it back on his shoulder, encouraging her.  “It’s alright.”

Emma tugged his coat down his arms, wriggling the sleeve over his brace.  She looked at it, eyes widening when the gentle magic lit all the way down to the hem.  It glittered, beautifully, a rare sight.  After a moment, she tossed it unceremoniously on the table.

“That coat is neat,” she said, quietly, her hands wandering back up his shoulders, “but don’t you find it…you know, kind of annoying?”

“Not at all.  It’s a beautiful sight.  It was dark for so long...until I met you.”

She flushed.  “At least a _little_ annoying.”

Killian only smiled in answer, and watched her while she plucked carefully at the buttons on his vest.  It was curious, watching her, watching him.  He could hear her in his mind, feel her grow nervous.  The same affection he felt warming his belly, warmed hers.  Her fingers, calloused over with many years at sea, rasped over the rich fabric of his vest.  When the last button had been undone, that too joined the coat on the table.

“You look nice in blue,” Emma said.  

She looked at his chest, intently, a frown pinching at her nose.  Her hand followed her eyes down to his own hand, and she pulled it up where she could see, tracing over the lines, the knuckles, examining the tips of his fingers.  She tugged the sleeve of his shirt down to his elbow, and similarly traced the tattoo on his forearm.  Every exposed bit of flesh, every divot and scar, thoroughly examined, with a lover’s caress.  Killian breathed shallowly through his mouth, a flush pooling in his cheeks, and spreading down his neck.  After quite some time, she dropped his hand, and did the same to his hook, tracing over the straps and buttons and embellishments.  His throat felt thick and useless, and he took a deep breath, air stuttering out against her hair.  She looked up at him.

“Are you okay?” she said.

He nodded, and swallowed.  “Aye, I just…”

_It’s been quite some time since anyone touched me like this,_ he thought.

_Get used to it_ , she answered him, gently.

He grinned down at her, and she unsuccessfully tried to bite her smile from her lips, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling up.  His hand free, he reached out, fingers hovering over her cheek, ghosting down her neck.

“You can touch me, you know,” she said.

His fingers trembled, and _not_ from the thirst for magic.  He touched the base of her neck, reaching around to rub at her spine, arching gracefully up towards the line of her hair.  Killian was too distracted to touch her in earnest, watching her learn the mechanism that held his hook in place, pulling it out of the brace and laying it more gently on the table than his coat or vest.  He wondered that she treated it with more care.

_That hook is a part of you,_ she answered.

_Aye,_ he thought, the simple word like a wisp, hovering between a sound and a vision, the way thoughts often did.

His hand fell away from her neck when she tugged at his shirt.  This, she let fall to the floor.  With only slightly more urgency, she touched his belly, and then his back.  Still, he could hardly do anything more than watch, pulling absently at her ear, tweaking the line of her jaw, brushing the dip of her collarbone.  He could feel his blood pooling in the very pit of his stomach.  The sound of her hands whispering over his chest, lingering in the dip of his spine, was soft, atonal and pleasant.  Her palms brushed over his nipples, and the sound that rose in his throat was guttural.  His hand tightened on her shoulder, and he pressed on her back until she was flush with him, her body all in line with his.  He leaned down, a slight bend in his knees, and kissed her.

Killian had kissed her before, or more accurately _been_ kissed by her, but never with quite so much building desire.  Again and again, he worked his tongue over hers, memorizing the shape of her mouth.  Her teeth scraped over his bottom lip, and her hands both threaded through his hair.  Just as she said, she tried to know him, and he did the same in turn.  The uneven tempo thrumming between them began to quicken, and when he pulled away, he began to tug at her clothes, until she was bare from the waist up.  Emma stepped back into his arms, her mouth brushing lightly over his before following his jaw, down to the chords in his neck.  When she began to pull the straps of his brace down over his arm, he tangled his fingers in her hair, and unwound her braid, until it spilled freely down her shoulders.

“You’re _immeasurably_ beautiful, Swan,” he said.

“So are you.”

His breath hitched when she pushed him backwards, and he laughed when he stumbled, nearly falling into his chair.  The fire was warm and pleasant, and it cast a glow over Emma’s skin.

“How do you not know where your own stuff is, you’ve lived here for a thousand years,” she said, tugging at her belt.  She paused when he beckoned her closer, and sighed when he pressed his face against her stomach.

_Hopefully no longer than that,_ he thought.

_I’ll bring down the mountain._ Her mind was like a whisper in his ear, soothing and calm.   _No offense, but it’s ugly anyway._

Killian laughed, a vision of the mountain eroding back to its natural state, aided by the push of magic.

“None taken,” he said.  He leaned back, and looked up at her, lashes fluttering when her hands wandered over his face.  “Let me look at you, Swan.”

_Okay._

It was strange, the sensation that he saw her before she had even removed her trousers, their minds and his eyes competing oddly, an arousing synesthesia that almost made him look away.  But he couldn’t bare to do so, certainly not when she stood nude by the fire.  She helped him out of his own trousers while his hand and wrist wandered over her flesh, down her shoulders and over her breasts.  His legs began to tremble, and he resisted the urge to pull her into his lap, to rut against her, to refuse the chance to know her in favor of his own pleasure.

“You’re not the only one,” Emma said, squirming when he kissed the jut of her hipbone, and thumbed at the crease where her thigh met her pelvis.  Her hands couldn’t seem to stop, memorizing him wherever she went.  Her touch breathed life back into him, filled him up where before only darkness had lived.

_Come here, love,_ he thought, and she fell into him.  Her hips led into his, and he could feel her, wet and warm.

“Breathe,” she said, smiling down at him.  He laughed, a choked sound, and complied.

For some time, she remained in his arms, her skin pressed tight to his.  Her thighs were parted over his own, her chest flush with his.

_I just want to know you_ , she thought.   _I want to keep you._

_You can do both._

Her arms tightened around him, and the push of her hips became purposeful.  When she breathed, a soft noise caught in her nose, sharpening when he began to keep time, sliding against her until she was slick.  Killian could feel her in his mind, all hesitation fallen away.

“Emma,” he begged.   _Emma, please._

She nodded, panting against his mouth.  Sweat beaded over her brow, and on her back, the fire now overwarm, but not unwelcome.  He looked down, and she mirrored.

It was a slow, almost tortuous thing, when he joined with her.  He breathed with her, nonsense words falling out of his mouth, until he had to look away, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder, his fingers splayed wide over her back, his wrist digging into her thigh.

Killian hummed, a low and broken sound, half between a moan and the note of some unknown song.

_Oh –_

_– gods_ , she finished.  

Emma rearranged her knees, gaining leverage, and an angle that dragged over him.  The pleasure hummed in his bones, and he spoke into her mouth, kissing her with terrible form, lips and tongue down the side of her face, and over her shoulder.

“I knew,” he panted.  “I _knew_ there was something about you.  The darkness begged me to leave you, or to possess you.  But I _knew_.”

_I knew you were destined for something more_ , he thought.   _I can’t –_

“ – ever go back.”

_I know,_ Emma thought.  “I know.  Me neither.”

Killian breathed wetly over her skin while he rose against her, as slowly as he wanted, as fast as she beckoned, until his toes curled, her mind like a balm, her body like a vice, her flesh wet and wanting where his fingers played.  Until he stuttered, and she along with him, coming long and hard and loud in the little room.

“Shit,” Emma said, into his ear.

Killian laughed, conscious but uncaring about the mess between their legs, eager to hold her as long as she would allow.

“Just a little longer,” she answered, leaning back to look him in the eye.  She drew her fingers through his hair.  So close, she still smelled of alpine earth, and of sex, a heady aroma.

“Aye, darling,” he said, and gathered her close.   _A little longer._

* * *

“Ow.”

Emma’s voice echoed loudly in the great hall.  Startled, Killian peered through a gap in the shelves, and watched her rub at the back of her head.

“You alright, Swan?”

_Son of a bitch,_ she thought.  “I’m fine.”

She returned to his collections, searching carefully to see if anything had been disturbed.  Killian chose to sit with his ledger, as much as it pained him to look at it.  The darkness, reawakened after its slumber, hummed in his ears.  Groggy and weakened, it said nothing, little more than a shadow in his mind, hanging over him while he poured through the pages.  It was a pointless exercise, but he was too much of a coward to look through the things he had taken.

“You’re not a coward,” Emma said, absently.

Killian sighed, comforted by her presence in his mind.  

After the pleasure had abated, she had lingered, her fingers digging into the back of his neck.  He would have held her forever, if she’d asked, but she was an honorable woman, given over to duty and love.  In that moment, at least, she had been his and his alone, and he cherished it for what it was.  He wondered if there would be any more like it.

“Are you _really_ reading that ledger?” she said.  “Or are you just thinking about sex?”

He smiled, faintly, and shut the book.  It was no use, and besides, he did not want to linger.  For perhaps the first time since he had begun that vile record, he did not care to look at it, did not heed its call.

“There’s nothing there,” he said.  

When he turned the corner, he found her laying on her side, looking through a series of jars, all carrying seemingly mundane things.  Cow’s tongue, sheep’s brain, lily petals.  The ingredients for potions and spells, some more benevolent than others.

“It’s a good thing you’re obsessively neat,” she said, when he stood over her, peering up at him.  “I would think it’d be easy to tell if anything had been taken.”

“Aye,” he said.  He took her hand when she reached for him, and pulled her to his feet.  Despite the warm cloths with which they had cleaned themselves – admittedly insufficient, but enough for their purposes – she still smelled faintly of sweat, and sex.  He inhaled, and brushed his lips over her forehead.  “We’ll have to try another level.”

“And _how_ exactly are we supposed to get up there?  They’re about a dozen fathoms high.”

“Hardly _two_ , my love, and besides, there’s a back way.”

“Oh, of _course_.”

He took her hand, leading her to the hidden door.  Only, instead of walking back towards the alcove, he turned right, and the stone parted for him, long winding steps giving passage to the upper levels.  Killian could feel Emma’s wonder as the stone unfolded before them, magic tumbling uphill.  She turned, and leapt closer to him when she saw that the stone pinched closed behind them.  The enchantment stuttered when they stopped, ancient rock grinding to a halt.

“Wow,” she said.

“Aye.”

“This place is so dramatic.  I would know it was yours even if you weren’t here.”

Killian snorted, but he said nothing, squeezing her hand tight as they followed the path of the spell through the mountain.

The next level, it seemed, held no more answers than the first.  There were spells, and books, and chests full of treasures, all of them accounted for in the ledger below.  Nothing was out of place.  Frustrated, they moved to the next, and then the next, the enchanted passageway winding upwards.  Emma seemed delighted by the enchantment, though her enthusiasm wavered the longer they searched.

“This is the next to last level,” she said, pouring through a small chest, Killian watching carefully.  

So high in the mountain, with no fire to keep them company, it was cold.  The cracks in the stone, masquerading as windows, allowed a meager light, and it poured over Emma’s back while she rooted through his things.  The darkness, louder now, squirmed, and demanded some sort of retribution.  A price, always a price.  Emma had taken more of him, and it wanted more of her in return.  Drawing on a strength he’d never believed he had, he ignored their cries.

“Aye, it is,” he said.  “I’m sorry, Swan.”

She frowned, and leapt to her feet, motioning for him to lead.  “Don’t be sorry yet.”

_I admire your determination,_ he thought, _but I fear your hope may be in vain._

_My mother would say that –_

“ – there is always hope.”

Killian paused on the landing, just as the stone curled opened to the highest level, and turned to look down at her.

“Oh?” he said.  “And what do you say?”

“I…guess there’s always a _way_ , at least.  If we die, we still lived.”

He smiled, tremulous, and turned back to the open room, which held just the one chest...

Open, and bare.  And the passage to the outer mountain, broken, stone spilling onto the floor.  Whatever the woman had done, she had clearly used magic to find her way out.  Her destructive spell followed the path of the enchantment, a path now chewed to rubble.

“Bloody hell,” he said, stunned.

“Oh, thank the _gods_.”  Emma seemed momentarily chagrined.  “Sorry about your, uh…house, though.”

“I don’t bloody _care_ about the house,” he snapped.  Emma looked up at him, clearly unimpressed.  “ _Castle_.  There was only one thing in that chest, Swan, and I can’t imagine it will do her any good.”

“What was it?”

“The blood of the Dark One before me.  Rumpelstiltskin’s blood.”

“She had to have wanted it for a reason.  Here.”

As unceremonious as ever, Emma tightened her hold on his hook, and tugged him through the passageway.  It spilled out into a hidden valley, a thin shoreline and a great, blue pond in the sleeping cauldron of the mountain.  The water was clear and crystalline, stirred only by the stray breezes that arced down through the craggy stone.  Emma paused to drink it in.  The smooth, spherical stones beneath their feet, bright pastels that rolled down towards the water.  Life stirred sluggishly beneath the surface, weeds and creatures alike.

“Wait,” she said, rushing forward.  There upon the ground, a vial had been discarded.  No blood remained, but Killian recognized the seal, the cork, the shape of the glass.  He sneered.

“That’s the one,” he said.  “She must have – ”

“Over here.”  Emma followed an invisible path.  She picked her way along the shore, leaning down from time to time to prod at the stones.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Tracking,” she answered, absently.  

She offered nothing else, until she came to a knot in the shoreline.  Emma pushed the stones away, _digging_ , he realized, until a thin, brown leather strap became visible.  She yanked, hard, until it came free.  In her haste, she simply sat there upon the ground.  Killian followed, and sat at her side while she rifled through the pack.  Ignoring the other contents, Emma tugged out a bound leather book.  She opened it to find a neat and flowing script.

“Look at this,” she said, and handed it to him, before turning back to the pack.

Killian opened to the first page.

“I travelled with Father to the border again this evening,” he read.  “We’ve made camp hardly a league from its edges.  I can tell he seems stifled, that he’s waiting for something.  But this country is many leagues across.  I don’t understand.”

Emma, clearly having found nothing else, laid the pack aside, reached over to tug at the sleeves of his coat.

“No offense to her,” she said, “but can we skip to the end?”

Killian smiled, and turned back to the journal, flipping to the most recent entry.  He read aloud.

“In the letters that he left, Merlin said that this wizard would help me, but I’ve searched the entire castle, and he’s nowhere to be found.”  Killian turned to Emma.  “Bloody hell, Swan, she was looking for _me_.”

_Ah, and what terrible thing would you have done to her to get what you wanted?_ the darkness wondered.

“First, I told you so.”  Emma paused, and tugged harder at his sleeve.  “Second, _don’t_ answer them.  Keep going.”

He obeyed.  “I’ve read all the books that Merlin left behind, several times over.  Some of them, I think, he never meant to be read.  But they respond to my magic.  I know that the blood of those who have died and returned can serve as a key to the… _Underworld._ ”  Killian looked sharply at Emma.  Her eyes were wide.  He read on.  “Merlin’s prophecies are dizzying, as it seems prophecies often are.  It was written that the broken blade Excalibur would be renewed, that the Promethean Flame…”  He paused, and shook his head.  He looked to Emma once more, but she urged him to continue.  “…would knit back the weave of destiny.  But frankly, that’s meaningless, so I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands.  The spell on my family’s home cannot crumble.  If they were meant to fight a war, then someone else will have to take their place.  My people are aging, and few.  I will not allow them to die.  I will die in their place if I have to.  Meanwhile, I will find Merlin, and restore the magic that protects them.  My family, my people, may not yet be lost.”

Killian turned the page, but there was nothing else.

“Killian…” Emma whispered.  “...the Underworld?  We can’t follow here there.  Unless…well, you know.”

Emma scrambled to her feet, the smooth stones loose.  Clearly frustrated, she began to pace the banks.

“I thought this was it,” she said, tugging at her hair.  Killian watched as she wandered back and forth.  She looked lost, and he felt it in his heart.  “That we could find the heir, and then banish the darkness.  And…”  Emma stopped, and looked down at him, a weary expression on her face.  “…I just want to go home.”

He pushed himself off the unsteady ground, and stood before her, leaning until he caught her eye.

“That woman is right, Swan,” he said.  “They may _not_ be lost.”

“But _how_?”

“Several decades ago, a man came to me, and offered me something in exchange for wolf’s bane.  I thought him a fool.  Wolf’s bane is rare, but not worth what it seemed he had given, something precious to him, but seemingly worthless to any other.  I was in no state to question what seemed like madness, so I took what he owed and thought nothing of it.”

Emma was nonplussed.  “Okay, but what does that have to do with this?”

Killian smiled.  “He called it the Promethean Flame.”


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and gratitude to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! I cherish every single one. Warnings for this chapter: Blood, violence, minor character death

“Is this it?”

Emma poked along the shelves on the ground floor, no longer quite so careful to leave his possessions undisturbed.  She had offered to thumb through his ledger to find the Promethean Flame, but Killian had refused, ostensibly because he knew roughly where the entry would be.  

The truth of it was, he wasn’t certain he could bear to watch her hold the record of his sins in her hands.

“Just wait a moment,” he said.  

The darkness _seethed_ as he pored through the pages, showing him all of the things he’d done in vivid detail.  They begged him to turn Emma away, to return to exile, to draw Mordred’s ire with dark magic, _anything_ but the path he now took.

But Emma’s light was so near to his heart, like cool water over a burn.  He did not listen to them.

“What about this?” she said.  She picked up a little box.  Its latch sprung open at her touch, and a terrible scream tore through the room.  Startled, Emma snapped it shut, and let it drop to the floor.  “What the hell was _that_?”

Killian laughed.  “A mermaid’s song.”

She made a face.  “It’s a little out of tune.”

“Those songs aren’t meant to be heard above the water, Swan.  They’re really quite beautiful.”  She appeared skeptical, nudging at the song with her foot.  “Perhaps…well, perhaps one day you can return, and you can listen.”

“Yeah,” she said, quietly.  “Maybe one day.”

Killian sighed, and turned back to his ledger, muttering while he turned page after page.  Emma seemed to sober with talk of the future, pacing up and down the aisles between the shelves.  She eyed the collection, but she didn’t touch anything.  It cost her a great deal, judging by the way she wrapped her fingers in the fabric of her vest.

 _Tactile,_ he thought, a brief vision of her hands on his nude body.  He shook his head, and turned another page.

“Here!” he shouted, when at last he found mention of the Promethean Flame.

Emma ran to his side, peering over his shoulder.  Her hand followed his, as she read aloud, “A fool of a man traded this for wolf’s bane.  If he’d seemed more eager to be rid of it, I wouldn’t have accepted.  As it is, it appears to be little more than a jewelry box containing a dead stone.”  Her fingers leapt over his, to the number and category at the left.  “Thirty-four J, Baubles.”  She snorted.  “ _Baubles_ , really?  This is such a wordy ledger.”

Killian snapped it shut, nearly catching her hand.  He made a gentle, apologetic noise, though he wasn’t terribly sorry.  The sight of her fingers gliding over the enchanted, bloody ink was as jarring as he’d imagined it might be.  Emma laid her hand on his arm as he gazed down at the cover.  The binding was rough beneath his fingers, and he realized that, whenever he turned away from it – _if_ he turned away – he would never look back.  He couldn’t, not when she beckoned him forward.

_Too much of a coward to take ownership for your mistakes._

Emma tugged sharply on his sleeve, and he let go of the ledger.

“Show me where it is,” she said.   _Don’t listen to them._

Killian nodded, and took her hand.  He led her to the back of the room, where the light never quite reached.  There in the corner, beneath the lip of a high window, dust had gathered over the baubles, each one more meaningless than the last.  Many of them were simply things he had found, things that were worth little gold, and nothing else besides.  Still, he had carried with him a terrible compulsion to build up a library of possessions.  He could not sleep, he had no taste for food or drink, so to while away the night, he had pored over all of the things he had stolen, bartered, and otherwise acquired.  

Watching Emma move among them, making faces at the more peculiar objects, and wiping the dust away on her trousers, he wondered how it was that he had _ever_ needed them.

 _I only need you_ , he thought, fondly, and she flushed.

“So,” she said, “where is it?”

Killian stepped past her, and to a shelf marked _J_ , where the Promethean Flame sat idly between two false gemstones.  It was a little, ornate box, made of fine materials, a delicate pattern weaving along its lid.  It occurred to him, when he picked it up, his thumbing running over the seal, that if it did indeed renew the blade, he’d unknowingly possessed a powerful forge for decades.  It was no wonder that Aldan had not found it, a beautiful but unassuming little thing.  He wondered at the man who had brought it, if he knew the Flame’s purpose, or if the gods merely smiled upon them.

“What will it do?” Emma said, looking cautiously down at the Flame.

“Re-forge Excalibur, if Aldan’s journal is to be believed.”

“No, I mean, what will it do if we re-forge the sword?  She wrote that it would _knit the weave of destiny_.  But… _what_ destiny?”

Killian frowned.

 _This could be a trap,_ one of the voices suggested, a woman’s.   _It could destroy you._

 _No matter,_ Killian answered.   _I suspected it might._

 _It could destroy_ her _.  The sword is not to be trifled with._

_Or perhaps it is not a forge, and the so-called weave of destiny is elsewhere._

He closed his eyes, and an image of the blade appeared, whole.  The darkness, it both feared and craved Excalibur’s power.

 _Don’t,_ some pleaded, while others urged him to take it.  Killian grasped the Flame tighter, and the voices grew louder.

“This is ridiculous,” Emma said, and reached out to lay her hand over his.  She startled when the lid creaked upon, and under their combined touch, it came to life, a bright red flame engulfing the dull stone within.  The darkness, loud and menacing, fell away, cowed in its presence.  His mind was blissfully empty of their influence, nothing but light in its place.  When he looked down at Emma, she looked back up at him, and he felt that he surely _knew_ what the blade could do when it was whole.

 _She will lead you to the end_.

Emma tilted her head.  “The end of what?”

“The darkness,” he answered, truthfully.

 _And me?_ he wondered, though he did not voice it, and he did not let it bleed through to her mind.

“Are you sure?” she said.  “ _Really_ sure?  You said so yourself, you’ve been the Dark One for one hundred and fifty years.  Do you really want to…you know, give that up?”

Killian thought of his long, and fruitless life, revenge and solitude and innumerable sins.  He thought, perhaps, he didn’t deserve to be able to leave it behind.

And yet...

He looked down at Emma, and thought of the look on her face when he had made love to her, and she to him.  Her light, and her compassion, unlike anyone he had ever met before.  Even now, she looked up at him like, if he said no, she wouldn’t care, that she’d stay with him.  Her fingers were fisted in the collar of his coat, her cheek resting against his shoulder.  Killian sighed against her mouth, and leaned down to kiss her.  The Flame crackled loudly, and he pressed closer.

“Aye, love,” he said, his lips brushing over hers when he spoke.  “I’m sure.”

Emma wasted no time.  She was unceremonious, as she often was.  She snatched the Promethean Flame from his hand and deposited it on the nearest table.  Killian followed her, grunting when she grabbed his belt and pulled him closer.  She pulled his dagger from its sheathe, and then the sword from her own.  A frisson of dark energy rattled down his spine, but he focused instead on the tumble of her hair over her shoulder, the familiar determination that tugged at the corners of her lips, and watched with faint amusement as she leaned over the Flame.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she said.  “ _No_ idea.”

She looked to him, and when he smiled encouragingly, she mirrored, and reached down for the two pieces of the blade.

At first, nothing appeared to happen, the flame licking uselessly at the unearthly metal.  But then, after a few moments, the longest of his very long life, the flame grew brighter, and rose from the box.  Arcs of an ancient, powerful magic grabbed at the blades.  The hilt of the dagger fell to the ground, and the magic pulled Excalibur from Emma’s grasp.  She stumbled back, and a terrible noise – like stone against glass, like blade against bone – echoed through the castle.  Killian threw his hand over his ear, his hook over the other, and watched as liquid darkness dripped off the sword.  Even as the two halves knitted back together, the presence writhed in the air.  It held onto Excalibur with a human-like grip, long and viscous fingers looping back around the blade.

“Mordred’s magic,” Emma shouted, over the din.

Killian watched, fascinated and horrified, as two magics battled.  The noise ratcheted higher and higher, until, with finality, the room was bathed in a flash of unnatural light, and Excalibur clattered to the ground.  Mordred’s magic had disappeared, and the sword, whole at last, lay in the light.  It glittered beautifully, dust motes dancing in its faint, distorting aura, both of their names written side by side.  It was bleak, and twisted, and enchanting, everything that made the darkness so dangerous.  He bent down, and reached out to touch the hilt.  It hummed pleasantly, and the voices of the darkness flitted briefly through his mind.  He pulled his hand back.

“Mordred’s enchantment...” he said.

“It’s gone,” Emma finished.  “It’s _gone_.  The darkness, _our_ darkness, must have destroyed it.”

 _A curious outcome,_ the darkness said, many of them at once.   _Though not unwelcome._

_Take the sword._

_Destroy King Arthur’s would-be successor._

_Take his land for your own.  His people would be much better off._

Emboldened, the darkness whispered.  On and on it spoke, a stream of insidious suggestions, each of which seemed more reasonable than the last.

“Shit,” Emma said, tugging at her hair.  She reached out, reflexively, for his hand, and Killian gripped tight.  “I thought that would do it.”

Killian quirked a brow.  “Do what?”

She made a face.  “Get rid of the darkness.”

“I suspect it will be more difficult than that.”

_All magic comes with a price, dearie, and this is the most powerful magic of all._

Killian scowled.   _I’m aware._

“Price?” Emma echoed.  “What price?”

_Oh, but you know, don’t you Hook?_

She tugged harder at his hand.  “ _What_ price?”

“I don’t have a bloody clue, and even if I did, speculating would be a waste of time.  We are free to use our magic, Swan, would you prefer to while away the time in my castle, or would you prefer to go home?”

“You’re lying,” she said, absently.  She let go of his hand, and picked up the blade.  For some time, she only looked at it.  Her distaste was apparent, and when it appeared she could no longer bear it, she used the dark magic to summon a simple scabbard, and tucked it at her side.  They held their breath, but nothing followed in its wake.  No churning of the earth, no portal.  Emma sheathed the sword, and took a hold of his elbow.  In her ire, the runes in his coat appeared even brighter.  The expression on her face was fierce, unyielding.  “You know what?  It doesn’t matter.  You’re right, let’s go home.”

Emma lingered on the word _home_ , and her voice broke.  She hesitated, clearly apprehensive, and he could hear the darkness taunt her.

 _You return to your kingdom, a murderer, and a bearer of dark magic.  Oh, I’m sure they’ll be_ thrilled _to see you._

“They won’t think differently of you,” Killian said, quietly.

Her eyes were bright, and wet.  “How could they _not_?”

“Days after I became the Dark One, I tore an entire kingdom apart.  You defended yourself against a malicious guard.  Can you not see the difference?”

Still, Emma hesitated.  “We _failed_.  We set out on a mission, and we failed.  My kingdom is going to war.”

“Aye, but darling, don’t you want to be there when they do?”

She gripped him tighter, and Killian watched several visions appear in succession in her mind.  A raging battlefield, blood spilt out upon the grass, the terrible screech of swords against armor, blades and arrows rending through flesh.  He suspected that some of it was memory, and some of it was speculation, grim and violent.  At the very least, he was glad that the thought of home, and of war, had turned her mind away from the price he suspected he would have to pay to be rid of the darkness.

 _And it will be me,_ he thought.   _Not her._

The darkness did not reply.

“Yes,” she answered, at length, “I do.”

And for what he hoped would be the last time, he left his castle behind.

* * *

Emma knew something was wrong the moment they arrived.

To maintain at least an air of secrecy, she had brought them to the east wing, her family’s private chambers.   _Private_ in name, but not in practice, there were typically voices floating down the halls, breathing life into the cool stone.

It was deathly quiet.

“There’s something wrong,” she said.  

She looked to Killian, but he seemed entranced by their surroundings.  It was nothing particularly grand.  Her parents had bothered with little else besides upkeep since they reclaimed their land, sloughing away the broken wings of the castle and using the stone to build jetties and keeps in the ports.  Though, Emma had to admit, it was still a display.  The stone at her feet was hewn slate.  Tapestries and paintings hung upon the walls, most of her and her family, some of Misthaven’s landscapes.  All things that were well-loved, and a little roughened.

“You really are a princess, aren’t you, Swan?” he said.  He reached out to touch the gilded frame of a family portrait.

“You’re only just realizing this _now_?”

“I – ”

“Emma!”

The sound of her name echoed down the hall.  She turned, and saw her little brother’s face peering out of his bedroom.  Only half-dressed – his shirt un-tucked and his feet bare, his dark hair a riot, sticking out behind his ears – he ran down the hall.  Stunned, she took only one step before he crashed into her arms.

“Leo,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.  “Oh gods, _Leo_.”  She hugged him so tight that he grunted.  “You’re so _tall_.”

Leo wriggled out of her arms.  “You’ve only been gone for a month and a half.”

“Wow, thanks.”

He grinned, her father’s smile on a young face.  When he looked at Killian, his expression slackened.

“Whoa, is that a _pirate_?  Hey, are you a pirate?”

Killian smiled, clearly charmed.  “Once upon a time, lad, I was not so very different from a pirate.”

Leo nodded, characteristic earnestness in the way he shuffled on his feet.  “Good, maybe you can help.”

Emma inhaled, sharply.  “With what?  What’s going on?  Where is everyone?”

“You know that passage behind the war room?”

“You mean that one that our mother and father told you to stay _out_ of?”

“The one what _you_ showed me?”

Emma sighed.  “What about it?”

“They’ve been in there day and night.  I just wanted to know why.  So, four days ago, I snuck back in there.  I heard them talking about Camelot, and about you.  Papa said that there were scouts at the border, that they’d seen an army coming down from the north.  The next morning, everyone was leaving.”

She felt the blood drain from her face.

 _August said we had a month,_ she thought.   _We should have another week, yet._

Killian answered, _Aye, but that man would stoop to any treachery for the sake of his own kingdom._

Emma laid her hands on Leo’s shoulders.  It struck her, then, that she was his age during the final battle, when what remained of the Black Knights and their sympathizers had fought an open war hardly a league away from the castle itself.  It was brutal, and there were times when she remembered, when she couldn’t help herself, holding her hands over her hears while the roar of battle echoed in her mind.

_I can’t let the same thing happen to you._

_It won’t, love._

“Can you do something for us, Leo?”  He nodded, eager.  “Do you remember where they went?  Can you show us?”

“I can,” he said.  “But wait!”

Leo leapt away from her, and ran back down into the hall.  She heard several loud _thuds_ , and a few curses that would make her parents cringe.  He ran back out, hastily dressed, licking the palm of his hand, and smoothing back his hair.

Emma rolled her eyes.  “You ran back in there to get _dressed_?”

“I’m a military advisor now, I don’t want to look ridiculous.”

“Military advisor,” she echoed.

“The lad’s right, Swan,” Killian said, gesturing with his hook between the two of them.  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, drastic times are no excuse for – ”

“ – poor attention to detail, yes, I know.  Come on, Leo, let’s go.”

“Is that a _hook_?” Leo said, watching the appendage sweep back down to Killian’s side, his brace resting on the pommel of his cutlass.  “You really are a pirate.”

Leo seemed to consider this a moment, before reaching out to grasp it, tugging so that Killian would follow.  Emma did as well, amused by the bewildered expression on his face.  

They wound quickly through the private chambers, and the throne room.  It was all so stark, a minimal guard milling about at their posts.  Clearly shocked to see her, they watched with wide eyes as her brother led them to the war room, bursting through the door, and running to the maps on the table.  There were still place markers, as though they had left in a terrible rush.  A polished round of obsidian lay on Camelot’s castle, and Leo reached out, sliding it down to the river and hillocks that rose and fell along the border between Misthaven, and the very southern wilds of Camelot’s territory.

“There,” Leo said.  He tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes, a facsimile of her mother’s most searing expression.  “They promised Misthaven a month, a stay of conflict.  They broke that promise.”

“They did,” Emma said.

Leo turned, and when he spoke, it was quiet.  It reminded her of when he was a child, frightened of the storms rolling in off the bay, crawling into her bed and begging for stories.

“I’m afraid, Emma,” he said.

Emma answered honestly.  “I am too.  But we’ve won a war before, Leo, and we’ll do it again.  Don’t worry, okay?  That’s our job.”

He looked a little put out by that, but he threw his arms around her all the same, and held on tight.

“You and the pirate’s.”

Killian laughed, softly.  “Aye, lad.  I’d offer to keep your sister safe, but I think it will be the other way around.”

Leo sniffled, and pulled away.  “Okay, well...bring the pirate back, then?”  He looked up at Killian.  “What’s your name?”

Respectfully, Killian bowed, his coat swinging at his thighs.  “Killian Jones, at your service, your highness.”

Leo puffed up, and though he was more than a head shorter than both of them, he managed to look regal, more so than Emma had ever managed.  He was wise for his age, and in the wake of impending battle, she felt a surge of fondness for him, hoping desperately that it wouldn’t be the last time she saw him.

“Good luck,” he said, and he laid his hand over his heart.  

Emma felt her eyes grow wet, and she returned the gesture, before reaching down for Killian’s hook, a swirl of gray magic taking them away to the border.

* * *

_Fear._

Emma could smell it.  Like blood, like a forge, it was acrid and potent.  She and Killian appeared in a forest, the trees thinning out and opening upon a rolling, verdant meadow.  The river was behind them, snaking down into the sea.  She could see the water through the trees, a glittering backdrop.  When she turned, she could see suits of armor, like liquid metal pouring down the hill.  On the other side of the meadow, more soldiers emptied into the valley, a swipe of red paint on the bellies of their cuirasses.

It was a misty day, patches of blue where the clouds were torn.  The landscape gave the impression of hills behind hills, painted in shades of gray.  One shaft of light opened near the distant shore, and brightened the field, where two figures met in its center.  Emma’s heart leapt into her throat.

“Oh gods,” she said.  “I think that’s Mordred.”

“Emma, is that _you_?”

A young stallion near the back of the line trotted towards her, Regina shifting comfortably on its back.  She floated gracefully towards the ground, and tugged at the lip of a thin set of armor that Emma was certain her parents had persuaded her to wear.  She was as artfully composed as ever, streaks of gray in her dark hair, an imperious expression on her face.  But there was warmth, a brief smile, and Emma threw her arms around Regina’s neck.

“Watch my _sword_ ,” she said, with fond exasperation.  “I have no idea _why_ your parents thought I needed this.  Your entire family is insufferable.”

“Tough,” Emma said, laughing wetly.

“And…who is this?”  Regina gestured at Killian, who stepped forward.

“Killian Jones,” he introduced, flitting quickly to business.  “ _What_ is happening here?”

Regina frowned, and eyed him skeptically.  But she did not hesitate for long, clearly of the same mind.  

“This… _Mordred_ – ”  Her lips curled distastefully over the name.  “ – has seen fit to take our kingdom, that he might repair his own.  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, given what miserable shape Camelot is in.  But…”  She paused, and looked to the battlefield.  Her fingers twitched, and Emma could see magic pulsing in the palms of her hands.  “…there’s something terrible here, Emma.  Some kind of elemental power in the soil, following the line of Camelot’s soldiers.  It feels like the magic that lives in the roots of the trees of the Enchanted Forest.  It’s ancient, and knowing.  But it’s been… _corrupted_.”

“The witches of the wood,” Emma explained.  “We saw them in Camelot.  They were bled dry, darkness pouring down into the water.  A seer told us that Mordred wants to _control_ the living magic that moves the realms using two charms in his possession, two stones set in silver.”

Regina echoed, “Two stones set in silver…”

She pursed her lips, and leaned back to look up at the canopy.  Emma followed her line of sight.  The trees above, they trembled.  It was spring, soon to turn to summer, but they carried miserable little leaves, not a flower in sight.  The ground gave way beneath their feet, dead roots turned to mush.  Emma listened with all of her might, but there was a hush over the land, as though it were breathing its last.

“Lapis manalis,” Regina said, quietly.

Emma wrinkled her nose.  “Lapis _what_?”

“ _Manalis_ , Emma.  One is said to command life, the other, death, a delicate balance.  It is only legend, but now I wonder…”

_It can call the waters up from the heart of the realm..._

The seer’s words came to her, unbidden.

“If both were used for ill,” Regina continued, “ _all_ might be lost.”

_They are chaos, they are the end of all things._

“ _No_ ,” Emma said, quietly.

“Bloody hell,” Killian said.  “The royalty of Misthaven attract darkness and legend like flies to a _fucking_ carcass.”

“Sorry.”  Regina looked him up and down, sharp and appraising.  “ _Who_ is this, again?”

“The Dark One,” Emma said.  “So am I, for that matter.”

Regina looked taken aback.  “The Dark One is a _myth_.”

“Tell that to all the voices in our head... _heads_.”

She was clearly startled, but Emma cut her off.  “Listen, we don’t have time for this.  Where are my parents?  They better not be at the front line.”

It seemed like Regina might protest, ask more questions, but urgency won out, and she answered, “It took a great deal of effort to convince them otherwise, but no, they’re not at the front.  Your parents are at the rear of the western flank.  I’m here because…”  She hesitated, wringing her hands, a rare show of vulnerability.  “…I won’t let them die, Emma, I promise you that much.”

Emma smiled, brokenly.  Quickly, Regina gathered up the reigns of her horse, and led them to her mother and father.

“You won’t either, Swan,” Killian said, in her ear.

“Won’t what?”

He pulled back, and took her hand.  “Die.  I swear to you, Emma, nothing will happen to you.”

“I don’t think you get a say in that.  Besides, we’re still immortal.”

Killian nodded.  The look on his face was not one she recognized, sad and resigned.  Parts of his mind, they felt closed off to her.  “Aye, you’re right.”

She wanted to prod at him, but the canopy overhead began to thin, the soldiers began to thicken, and there upon their horses, bathed in the light that fell from above, sat her mother and her father.  

It was curious, Emma thought, how all of the longing, and fear, and uncertainty, converged in that one moment.  The light was dull, but it still glimmered off their armor.  There was gray all throughout their hair, and lines on their faces, by their eyes and mouths, well-lived lives with many years ahead.  Their hands were clasped between them.  The sorrow and determination on their faces made for a tragic painting, and Emma hoped that, one day, it _would_ be painted, as a triumph, a battle fought and won.

 _Don’t you worry about the future, duckling,_ her father would tell her.   _It won’t make you a hand taller, or a day older._

And now there he was.

“Papa,” she said, a child in her voice.  Both her mother and her father startled, and it was a flurry from there.

Her mother got to her first, and cried into her shoulder.  Her father enveloped them both, and Emma _sobbed_.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, again and again.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean for this to happen.  We failed, we failed.”

Emma could feel her father shake his head, her mother hold her tighter.  She realized that she could feel Killian’s hand at her back, too, still close by.

 _You didn’t fail,_ he reassured.   _You didn’t fail._

“Oh, Emma,” her father whispered.

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” her mother said.  “Don’t you dare.”

Emma nodded, and cried until she couldn’t cry anymore.  When she pulled away, her father reached up, and brushed her tears away from her face.  For the longest time, she stared up at him, then at her mother, back and forth.

“This is sweet and all,” Regina said, and it sounded as though she meant it, “but you’re running out of time.  The negotiations have broken.”

“Emma,” her mother said, grabbing her shoulders.  “First, I want you to know that this _isn’t_ your fault.  Do you believe us?”

Emma hesitated, but she nodded.

“Wars happen.  Your magic is a beautiful, and powerful thing.  We knew there would be people that would want to take you.  We will _die_ before we let that happen again.  So would any one of these people here today.  And you don’t get to feel guilty about that.”

She could feel her lower lip tremble, and Killian’s hand pressed harder into her back.

“Your mother’s right,” her father said.  He smiled, serenely, as though they weren’t standing at the fringes of a battlefield, the battle itself holding its breath.  When he looked at Killian, his smile faded, curious and appraising.  He turned back at Emma, and took her hand, leading her to his horse.  “I’m guessing you have a lot to tell us?”

“That’s Killian,” she said, looking over her shoulder.  He stood awkwardly at her mother’s side, blushing beneath her scrutiny.  Emma turned back to her father.  “It’s a long story.”

His eyes twinkled.  “I know it is.  You know, we _would_ die for you if we had to, but I hope you know, we’ll do what we can to come back to you, and you can tell us everything.  Remember...we will always find you.”

In any other situation, Emma might have rolled her eyes at what she’d come to think of as a platitude.  But she smiled, tremulous, and watched as her father fetched something from his saddle.  When he turned back to her, he held out a sword.  It was something she hadn’t used in some time.  Much to her father’s chagrin, she preferred a knife in her boot, and a quick wit, rather than the weapon he now held in both of his hands.  The very one with which he had taught her to wield a sword when she was a girl.

“I wanted to have you on the battlefield with me, Emma,” he said, quietly.  “This was as close as I could get.”

Emma’s hand trembled, hovering over the pommel.

“I’ve done terrible things,” she whispered, looking up into his kind eyes.  “I’ve run away, I’ve killed people.  Mordred filled me with darkness, and I’ve given in, and I just…don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you love me.”

Her father urged her to take the sword and she did, the hilt light and familiar in her hand.  Once more, he tucked her into his arms.

“Just as we’ll always find you,” he said, his hand laying gently over the back of her head, “we’ll love you for longer.”

“Your majesties.”

Her parents’ general approached, and waited at a respectful distance as Emma pulled away.  Her mother joined them, and left Killian behind.  He wore a fierce expression on his face.

“It would be foolish of us to try and convince you to go back home,” her mother said.  “I know that you have magic, Emma, but be _careful_.”

“I will,” she answered.

They turned back to the general, who bowed respectfully, her helmet under her arm.  She gripped the pommel of her sword, tightly, the metal stretched over her gauntlets creaking with the strain.  Killian appeared back at Emma’s side, his hand wandering over her back.  He was so close that, when he breathed, she could feel it on her neck.

 _Are you afraid?_ she thought.

 _Bloody terrified,_ he answered.

“I…honestly don’t know what to say, your majesties,” the general said.  “That man is unhinged.  I can’t say for certain whether we’ve arranged a stay of conflict or not.  He’s not made any demands, and now he’s just…standing on neutral ground, doing nothing.  I would guess that he means for there to be battle, no matter what we would offer him.”

Her parents nodded, and looked to Emma.  They held their hands over their hearts, and Emma mirrored.

“Be safe,” she said.  Her parents both nodded, and ordered the general to the front.

 _Fifty-nine_ , Emma counted back.  

One minute, she guessed, from there to the front, where the spearmen and their horses waited, the latter of which snorted, stamping hard at the ground.

 _Fifty_ , she thought, and she grabbed Killian’s hand, dragging him back into the forest.

“Swan,” he protested.

 _Forty-two,_ she thought, and she pressed him against the nearest tree, a thin barrier between the two of them, and the world.  It felt final.  She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it felt like the end.  Emma buried her fingers in his hair, and leaned against his body, from chest to knee.  It was a body she knew, and she begged the gods to let her know him again, and again, for as long as they lived, to the end of much older days than this.

“I don’t give goodbye kisses,” she said, and he nodded, clearly bewildered.  “Not until now.”

 _Thirty-one_ , she counted, and she kissed him.  She opened her mouth, and spoke to him silently, her tongue stroking against his.  He kissed her back, fiercely, his hand fisting in her vest, his hook looped in her belt.

_Twelve._

Emma pulled away, but Killian chased her lips, and kissed at the corner of her mouth, her jaw, and her neck, before returning to her lips, opening his mouth wide, and breathing wetly into hers.

 _One_.

She pulled away.

* * *

Killian was still panting when he heard a telltale shift in the field behind him.  He wondered if he could, by sheer will, force the moment to last forever.

“Emma,” he breathed, against her mouth.  She pulled back, only far enough to tug at Excalibur, wrenching it from her belt and handing it to him.  He faltered, and nearly dropped it on the ground.

“Take it,” she pleaded.  “I have my own sword, I don’t want that anymore.”

He nodded, and pulled her closer.  He rested his forehead against hers.  As much as he longed to turn time back, it rolled on, as steady and unyielding as ever.  The horses began to walk, a sound like thunder, shaking the very earth at their feet.  Emma let him go, and his heart thudded, the sense of loss unbearable.

_That’s what we’re here for, dearie.  You don’t need anything else, anyone else._

Killian scowled, and tore his cutlass from his belt.  He let it drop to the ground, and put Excalibur in its place.

“Come back to me,” Emma said, and he tangled his fingers in her hair, and kissed her just one last time, his lips lingering on hers.

“I love you,” he said.

For the first time, the chorus of impending battle behind her, light in her eyes, and a gentle, discordant smile on her lips, she answered him, “I love you too.”

Killian followed her into the sea of armor.  Though he longed to wear a mask, to treat the battlefield like just another hindrance, he didn’t allow it.  The darkness churned in his gut.

 _You want for blood?_ he taunted it.   _You’ll surely have it._

He walked apart from the ranks, Emma just ahead.  The land sloped up before it led down to the valley.  On another day, perhaps, it would have been a beautiful sight.  Thrushes in the meadow, delicate flowers spilling down along the hillocks, a braid of pits and knots that offered a lovely vantage of the forest to the west, and the sea to the east.  As it was, Mordred stood tall at its center, and he held something in his hand, a light of sorts.  Whatever wretched magic was eating away at the land, it began to stir, the ground trembling.  Two armies approached him, his own from behind, and Misthaven’s from ahead, but still he remained.

“What the _hell_?” Emma said, and Killian echoed, watching as the man raised up his arm, and let go of the light.

“The charms,” Killian said.  “ _Both_ of them.”

One around Mordred’s neck, and the other, hovering over him.  A beat, and then it began to rise, far above the valley.  The soldiers became agitated, the horses as well, and the general shouted above the noise, commanded them to form and keep ranks, frissons of fear and apprehension disturbing their rhythm.  Killian watched in morbid fascination as the earth itself shifted, like the wind rolling through a sail.  The ranks began to pick up speed, the horses moving from a measured walk to a trot, a trot to a gallop.  They stumbled, but they did not fall, and just as one army met the other – a crush of bone against bone, blade sinking into flesh, an uproarious clash – both charms pulsed, and the ground in the valley began to grow wet.

It was like water, swimming with oil, slick and smelling of rot.  Distracted, Killian nearly did not see the soldier ahead of him, and he only just leapt out of the man’s path.  Rage, as terrible as whatever magic boiled at their feet, grabbed a hold of Killian’s heart, and without thought, he drew Excalibur, and plunged it into the soldier’s gut.  When he wrenched it free, blood and flesh spilled upon the ground.  The dark magic seeping from the ground appeared to consume it.

“Killian!” Emma shouted, fighting battles of her own.  Her sword clashed against her opponents’, the chaos of war and putrid magic all around.  It was a chorus with which he was familiar.  “It’s some kind of darkness...the seer warned us.  The magic in the charms – ”

“I – ”  Four more soldiers rushed him, and the darkness reveled in their swift deaths, the magic in his fingers twisting down into their bones, and wrenching their spines free of their skulls.  “ – _know_ , Swan.”

The magic rose from the soil, seemingly benign, sloshing at their feet like pitch swimming in water.

But then – and it was like the earth itself expelled a hot, punishing breath – it coalesced.  The water itself burned away, leaving behind a terrible and viscous abomination.  The soldiers, of Camelot and Misthaven alike, stumbled away, the battle half-forgotten as they watched it become first a wide pool, the size of many ships across.  It swallowed nearly a quarter of the battlefield before it took form.  Like the magic torn from Excalibur, when it had been reforged, it had a distinctly human-like form, long and wispy fingers rising into the air before they fell back to the ground.  Killian watched with unbridled, abject horror.  Whatever living thing the monster touched, it breathed its last.  The grass shriveled and bodies withered away as, like a half-rotten corpse, it dragged itself across the field, consuming all in its wake.  Dozens of soldiers fell, and though Mordred stood nearby, shouting madly at the creature, it did not heed him.

“Oh gods,” Emma whispered.  “Oh _gods_.”

The battle itself became half-hearted.  Steel yet rang out against steel, but wherever the monster appeared, the fighting disbursed.

“Never in my days,” Killian breathed.  “Never have I seen anything like this.”

Emma cried out, pain and fury, as the monster destroyed first the valley, before dripping up along the hill, where her parents were surely fighting among the rest.  She paused, just long enough to reach out, and drag her fingers down Killian’s jaw, before she ran through the fray, pushing soldiers aside.  Oh, how he longed to follow her, for as long as he lived.

He supposed, in essence, he would.

_She will lead you to the end._

And now, here he was.

“Mordred,” he growled, when he appeared at the man’s side in a cloud of red magic.  

Whatever madness had taken Mordred, it seemed to wash away in the wake of so much death.  The valley reeked of it, blood and entrails and a darkness born of a corrupted magic, torn from the very soul of the realm.  Killian reached out, and grabbed a hold of the man’s armor.  Pain lashed at Killian’s fingers, the charm around Mordred’s neck flashing bright, but he did not let go.  

Killian snarled in his face.  “What have you _done_?”

“Power leads to prosperity,” he said, chanted it like a verse.  “Power leads to prosperity.”

Livid, Killian pushed, and Mordred fell to the ground.  It jarred him from his trance.

“What have I done?” he echoed.  “I don’t know, I don’t know.  It should follow my command.”

 _In the wrong hands, that power is unpredictable_ , the seer had said.

“You cannot _command_ this magic!” Killian shouted.  “You’re a bloody fool, a _disgrace_.”  He paused, and weighed Excalibur in his hand.  “You know, Emma would never allow such a thing.  I’m sure she could talk some sense into me.”  He leaned down, breath stirring the lank hair that fell over Mordred’s face.  “But alas, she is elsewhere.  What’s one more sin, alongside so many others?  If it stalls this wretched magic, good, if it doesn’t, _so be it._ ”

There was nothing ceremonious about it, quick and surely painless, but satisfaction still surged through his chest when Excalibur arced down through the air, and removed Mordred’s head from his shoulders, the charm around his neck rolling to Killian’s feet.  He spared little time to let it sing through his blood.  He looked up, the other charm gleaming brightly, rising above all else, like a star hanging _just_ there, right where they could reach.  Mindless with fury, trembling with fear, he grabbed the charm at his feet, the chain dangling from his hook, and ran to the nearest hill.  It was devoid of battle, lonely, a few trees swaying peacefully at his back.  He tried to ignore the bodies beneath him as he went, most sapped of life by the wretched thing that poured along the landscape.

 _Take it,_ the darkness in him urged. _Take it for your own._

 _Don’t trifle with me,_ Killian growled.

_It could be an asset._

_It’s uncontrollable._

“In the right hand,” Killian intoned.  He nearly laughed.   _In the right hand,_ the seer had said.  “It can undo all of the darkness.”

He let Excalibur fall to the ground, and he thrust his right hand up towards the other charm.  With all the power he possessed, he tugged it from the sky.  The stone of death, at his left side, the stone of the waters of life, at his right, corrupted by malintent.  The darkness within, it shrieked, and the creature ahead of him echoed.  It dissolved back into the valley, before it burst back out of the ground, towering above him, wispy fingers clawing at the ground below.

 _Killian_.  Emma’s voice was soft in his mind.   _Killian, what are you doing?_

 _You wanted to be rid of the darkness_ , he answered. _Here’s your chance._

_No!_

_You and I both know there’s no other way._

“I can take it with me,” he said aloud.  He dropped the charm in his hand, picked up Excalibur, and held it aloft.  Like a great beast, the presence before him cried out.  Killian did not know if it would work, but still he gripped the sword.

_Help me, Swan._

He could feel her light, even as the terrible, viscous darkness pooled at his feet, the creature drawing closer.  It was unlike anything he had ever felt, pain in reverse, the sharp tug bearable at first before it gripped hard at his flesh, and he screamed.

 _Just a little longer,_ he thought.  

The creature writhed, sinking back into formlessness as it succumbed to the light magic that poured first form Emma, and then through him.  Down, down it went, swirling around and around the blade in his hand.  Until at last, it lay trapped within.  The Dark One roared in protest, as though apart from him, and Killian panted.  Pain, and sorrow, and regret, all of them together an overwhelming chorus.

_You’re doing the right thing, little brother._

Killian laughed, a mournful noise.  He heard his brother’s voice, clear as day.  Not once, in a century and a half, had he heard him speak, his memory abandoning him to darkness the day Killian took his vengeance.  Emma appeared before him just as the tears began to gather in his eyes.  A confused battle still raged down over the hill, muffled by the distance.  He looked to Emma, held out Excalibur, and begged –

“ _Please_.”

Mindless, and terrified, she dropped her own sword, and took it from him.  It trembled in her hands.  She looked lost, and Killian could hear the darkness whisper at her, relentless.  It faced death as it did its unliving life, petulant and insidious.  Despite its throes, he felt serene.  He realized that, as death waited for him as well, he was glad to accept it.  For decades, he’d sought atonement, never quite succeeding.  The red in his ledger bled out onto everything that he did.  So he looked to Emma, and tried to catch her eye while she wrestled with the darkness in her hands.

 _Love,_ she thought, wildly.

And Killian answered, “Love.”


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and gratitude to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! I couldn't do this without them. Warnings for this chapter: Death, angst

When the light faded, Emma came back to herself.

Silence.

As surely as the Dark One had been destroyed, the creature had disappeared, and the living water that was drawn out of the earth flowed down the hill, benign, soaking into the valley.  The sounds of battle halted, a hush of confusion.  

Everything, silent, save for the wet, labored noises Killian made as he died.  Emma tugged Excalibur from his gut, and it faded away on the wind, quickly forgotten when he stumbled into her arms.  She could feel his hand in her hair, his cheek rough against hers.  When he fell to the ground, and she along with him, she could feel his heart beating beneath her ear, unsteady and faint.

Emma could _not_ feel his mind.  

Oh, how she had longed to be free of the darkness, but first before all else, she was aware of the loss of the power that allowed her mind to live alongside his.  In that moment, she wished to take it back, to live out their unending days where nothing and no one could find them.

“No,” she whispered.  “ _No_.”

Killian only took a few haggard breaths before he passed.  His heart stuttered and stopped, and she let out a terrible cry, loud and mournful.  The world came back to life – the swishing of the trees, the song of the birds, the flow of the water into the sea, the dull and distant clank of armor, the huffing of the horses.  Her parents, she knew, were safe, but there were many others, dead and dying on the battlefield.  She could heal them, she knew this, but selfishly, she curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat instead.  It glittered furiously, a bright and familiar red.  Emma couldn’t bear it, so she closed her eyes, and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

She startled when she felt a warm hand on her back.  She turned, and saw her parents’ faces.

“Oh, Emma,” her mother said, reaching down to wipe at her tears.  When her father tugged gently on her arm, Emma shook her head, violently.  She turned back to Killian, dragging her hand through his hair, down the side of his face.  She held onto him, until her father pried her fingers from Killian’s coat, and lifted her into his arms.  When she bit down on the inside of her cheek, her cry caught in her throat, he held her tighter.

“It’s okay to cry, duckling,” he said.  “It’s okay.”

So, she did.

* * *

Time meant little to her, suffice it to say that it was still light when she could walk on her own.  Her father led her through the battlefield while her mother ordered the soldiers about.  As was customary, the physicians had carried two silk sheets with which to wrap the king and queen, should they fall.  When her father had at last coaxed her away, her mother had demanded the very one meant for her, and it had been laid over Killian’s body.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, roughly.

Her father held her tighter against his side as they walked.  The ground was a mess, torn apart by the darkness.  It was like a graveyard, desolate and gray.  The grass was withered, and the trees were bent over with the weight of their own death.  Yet another tear slipped down her cheek, dripping off her chin.  Emma swiped angrily at her face.

“What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

“I should have gone with the physicians.  But I…”

“Loved him?”

Emma was too distraught to be embarrassed.  She answered, quietly, “Yes.”

Her father stopped, and turned to face her.  He laid one hand on her shoulder, the other on the back of her head.  When she looked up into his eyes, another tear followed, and she wondered if this was always to be her fate.  To banish the darkness, to get exactly what she had wanted at the outset, only to lose what she wanted at the end.

“Please,” her father said.  “ _Don’t_ say that you’re sorry.  Regina is here, the physicians are here…let yourself rest.”  He rubbed gently at her face, his thumb over her cheek.  Emma hadn’t felt quite so young, or so vulnerable, in years.  “I don’t know what you’ve been through, Emma, but I want you to know that it’s okay to fall apart.  Alright?”

She nodded, furiously, and let him lead her back to the forest, where a young soldier watched over their horses.  The people, most of whom she recognized, laid their hands over their hearts as she passed.  A few, ones she had known for several years, smiled, their faces falling when they caught sight of her expression.  Emma was sure that her father was waving people away.  She could hear startled noises, noises of sorrow, the adrenaline-soaked chatter of the moments after battle.  When she passed close, the people quieted out of respect.

“Do you want your own horse?” her father asked, quietly.  

Emma imagined she could simply will herself back to the castle in moments.  But she knew it would be largely empty, save for her little brother, who would ask her what had happened to her pirate.  She conjured up his eager, young face, curious to hear a firsthand account of war, as the young often were.  She shuddered, and nodded, and when at last the bodies had been accounted for, the wounded healed, the remnants of the confused battle disbursed, the faint outline of the sun behind the low, yellow clouds on the horizon, Emma followed close behind her parents, and began to live Killian Jones’ last moments, over and over again, in her mind.

* * *

Killian was nearly halfway to his feet before he realized that he was awake.

He could hear the echo of Emma’s cries in his ears, an otherworldly sound that travelled strangely in the stagnant air.  The pain in his gut echoed as well, but when he lifted his shirt and vest, the wound was gone.

“What the bloody hell is this place?” he wondered aloud.

He expected a response.  There always was one in his mind, in one of many voices, all of which he had come to recognize well.

But then…nothing.

It was then that he remembered, the darkness had been destroyed.  Though he had died in the process, his mind was clear.

“Emma!” he shouted, overjoyed, and turned, realizing the moment he did that she would not be there.  That she would be in the realm of the living, he apparently doomed to the Underworld, if that’s where he was.  It was better, of course, that she was alive, but he ached to tell her, to see her, to _hold_ her.  

He could do none of those things, and so instead he walked, and painted a picture of her in his mind.

Whatever realm it was that he wandered, Underworld or not, it was not unlike Misthaven.  The light was muted, and appeared to have no source.  The trees were immobile, and as surely as there was no breath in his lungs, there was no wind in the air.  It was as though it had all been carved from stone.  Though, when he reached out to prod at the low-hanging branches, they wobbled.  Specters, they were, or something similar.

_Well, this is grim._

It was Emma’s voice.  Not living, like the darkness, but a haunting facsimile.  It was ironic, Killian thought, that he was the one who had died, and yet he would be haunted.

_This is the afterlife, little brother, there are no rules._

It was strange.  When Killian had imagined death, or imagined what it would be like to be rid of the darkness, he thought it would be lonely, or empty.  The darkness was an eternal chorus, singing the song of revenge.  They knew it was the quickest way to bring him to his knees, to bend him to their will.  But now that they were gone, he felt fuller than ever before.  When he saw Emma in his mind, it was not accompanied by voices trying to wrench them apart, and it was not colored with shadows.  It was only her, and her voice.  He knew she was alive, he knew her family was safe, he knew he’d paid for the terrible things he had done.  It was freedom, sweet and intoxicating, and though he mourned their parting, he was satisfied that she had lived on, while he had died, and that the red in the ledger he kept had faded away, quite literally.

Killian walked on, and kept this in mind.  He supposed that, if this was death, if it was his punishment, it was not any scenario that he had dreamed, most of them hellfire and torture.  When he came to a river, its waters flowed just like everything else in this place, calmly and without life.  A shallow bend led him to a suite of undulations in the land, gentle ups and downs that spilled down towards a valley.

“I know this meadow,” he said.

Several long strides brought him to the place where he had died.  Only, it was not torn apart by darkness.  When he looked to the east, he saw the sea, like a sheet of glass.  It too was lifeless, by far the saddest sight he had seen thus far.

A terrible noise rent dully through the air, and Killian turned.  He sneered when he saw Mordred stumbling through the tree line.  He wondered if one could feel pain in the Underworld, rather _hoped_ that one could, and moved to stalk towards the man.  Only, long before Killian could reach him, the noise grew louder, and the ground tore open.  A river like he’d never seen appeared in the crack, water sluicing up from deep within the heart of the realm.  It was green, and moved more like air than water.  When Mordred fell in, it was as unceremonious as his death.  His seemingly corporeal form dissipated, and he let out an unearthly cry before the ground twisted back as it was, as if nothing had ever happened.

“Bloody hell,” Killian whispered.  He was caught, suddenly, by the thought that, perhaps he was no better than Mordred, that the ground would open and swallow him up.  Frozen in place, he watched the ground, and wondered if that was his fate as well.

“You have nothing to worry about.”

Startled, Killian turned on his heel.  A man stood only a few paces away.  He smiled winsomely, and inclined his head.  Though there was no breeze, his robe – made of very fine fabric indeed – fluttered.

“Who are you?” Killian said.

The man’s smile brightened, and he lifted the hood of his robe up over his head.  His eyes twinkled, and he let his posture slacken.  When he spoke, he put on a much older voice.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

Killian’s eyes widened.  “ _You_.  You traded the Promethean Flame for wolf’s bane.”

The man nodded, and removed his hood.  “I am Merlin.”

_Decades_ , Killian thought.  The man must have been some sort of seer, for if what Killian suspected was true, Merlin had been setting the pieces into play for years.  He’d brought the Flame to his castle, he’d cast the spell on the lost faction of Camelot.  He’d known the sword would banish the darkness, and wrote it down where it could be found.  Killian reached up, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I imagine you have many questions,” Merlin said.

Confusion and awe began to melt first into disbelief, and then into anger.

“Did you… _know_ Emma would become the Dark One?” Killian said, slowly.

Merlin sighed, and his smile gave way to sorrow.  “I did.”

Killian sneered.  “And yet you did _nothing_.”

“On the contrary, I saw that you would play a significant part in banishing the darkness, and that she would be made whole again.  I gave you the Flame so that you would be prepared, so that it would be as painless as possible.”

“ _Painless_ ,” Killian echoed, derisively.

Merlin frowned, and considered him.  Then, he gestured towards the forest to the north, where, in the realm of the living, Misthaven would bleed into Camelot’s wilds.

“Walk with me?” he said.

Killian regarded him suspiciously.  But, at length, he nodded, and followed the man into the woods.  For some time, whatever time meant in this place, they walked in silence.  Merlin was clearly deep in thought, and Killian supposed that, since he was dead, he could be patient.  Still, his fingers dug into the palm of his hand as he waited for him to speak.

_Did Emma go through all of this for nothing?_

“Camelot was falling apart,” Merlin said, when the light of the realm began to fade.  “I had thought that Arthur was meant to fulfill the prophecy, to repair the broken kingdom.  After so much strife, it felt good to mentor him, to teach him the ways of magic, to hope that, in just one more human lifetime, it could see prosperity once more.”

“Judging by what I’ve seen of King Arthur,” Killian said, “I would say you weren’t successful.”

“Quite the opposite.  He wanted power, always more power, convinced it would help him save his kingdom.  I watched the same sickness stir in his nephew, even as a young boy.  When the Lady Guinevere fell in love with another, and was with child, I suspected I had read the future wrong.  It is, of course, inevitable, but never before had a misinterpretation been so disastrous.  I knew I had to do something.”

“And so, you set your sights on Emma.  Hadn’t she suffered enough as a child?”

Merlin stopped in a small clearing, a dip in the earth where water gathered.  A willow bent over the pool, its leaves hanging down like a curtain, dragging through the muck.  He peered down at his own reflection.  There was some manner of dissatisfaction there, frustration, perhaps even a touch of disgust.  Killian knew the feeling well.

“I knew what was at stake,” Merlin said.  “As a much younger man, I had tried to change the course of the future before.  It never worked.  So, I facilitated as much as I could.  I hid Guinevere, her family, and all those loyal to her in the northern wilds of Camelot.  It was rumored to be cursed.”  He paused, and smiled, a secretive expression.  “In the earliest days of the realm, it was called Avalon.  From there, all magic was born.  I suppose that was the source of the rumors.  No matter, the people of Camelot did not venture near it.  It served its purpose.”

Killian thought of the Isle of Apples – or Avalon, as it were – and the spell that had been placed on its borders.  It was more powerful than any spell he had ever encountered, enduring and terribly effective.

“But what does this have to do with Emma?” Killian said.  “You could have taken the sword from Arthur, you could have done…any _number_ of things.”

Merlin shook his head.  “I told you, the future is not to be trifled with.”

“Of _course_ not,” Killian said, bitingly.

“I know you will never agree with me, but I did what I thought was right.  I knew that Arthur would tie her to the darkness.  When he was young, I gave Mordred a spell to track the whereabouts of the hunting dogs he so loved.  Many years later, he warped that spell with the power of the lapis manalis and used it to cast a spell on a piece of Excalibur.  Fearful for its own survival, cowed by the elemental magic living deep within the earth, the darkness recoiled.  Thus...I knew that Emma would not succumb to the power of the Dark One.”

Killian scowled, took one long stride, and nearly spat in the man’s face.  “Emma did not succumb to the darkness because of _Emma_ , not because of _you_.”

Merlin appeared to consider him.  Then, “You may be right.”

Killian seethed, but the longer he wore his anger, the more tired he became.  With nothing to spark it into a flame, with several hundred years behind him, it sloughed easily off his shoulders.  Though he had no real need, he took a deep breath, and stepped back.

“I gather Aldan is the one meant to repair the kingdom,” he said.

Merlin tilted his head.  “Indeed.  Some of the work has been done.  After all, when darkness meets light, what’s broken will be remade.  But it cannot be completed without her, without her family.”

Killian closed his eyes, and leaned back.  He imagined the lick of the breeze, one that would roll in off the sea, smelling of salt, and that sweet smell of living things.  If he thought hard enough, he could almost feel it.  When he looked back at Merlin, his ancient, knowing face seemed younger, sympathetic.

“I’ve had enough of prophecy,” Killian said, quietly.  “The darkness is banished, and my life is done.  What happens next?”

Merlin nodded, and gestured for them to continue walking.  Killian followed him deeper into darkness.  Whatever gave light to the realm had gone, and night fell.  Though it was a place of death, the night was not insidious.  Killian had known nights such as this when he was alive.  A curtain drawn over the stars, not a one to be seen.  In winter, when nothing grew or sung or moved, and storms brewed in the clouds, his lonely mountain was much the same.  

Curious, though, was how the Underworld changed as they went.  As though it were a map, folded beneath their feet, the landscape passed in lurches.  The climate changed quickly, and Killian blinked.

“Your life may be done,” Merlin said, seemingly unaffected by the peculiar passage of both space and time, “but death has not quite begun.  What say you to one last quest?”

_Quest_ , Killian thought, distastefully.  

The truth of it was, he’d rather death would simply take him.  He was tired, and longed for Emma.  His chest ached with it.  Her lips were a phantom, pressed against his own.  Though he had many regrets, the latest before he died was that he had not held onto her longer, that he had not kissed her again.  Or perhaps before that, when he had made love to her, and she to him.  Why had he not joined with her once more?  Before they’d gone to the Enchanted Forest, or from there to Camelot’s borders.  In this strange realm, with no feeling or time, with no clear borderlines, he quickly began to forget the taste of her mouth, the texture of her hair.

“What do you want?” Killian said.

“When I passed, my spell began to weaken, but you see…”  Merlin paused, and he looked shameful, casting his eyes to the ground.  “…that was no simple spell.  Spells die, they bend, they age.  Lancelot and Guinevere, all of the people in Avalon...we shared a curse.”

Killian blinked, disbelieving.  “Bloody hell.  You _cursed_ them.”

“I’m afraid so.  A curse that reflects the darkness in one’s soul.  The price for keeping out those of malintent, is that those upon whom it was cast are bound to the land.  It must be broken before they can venture out.  Those who were born after the curse had been cast are unaffected, but the rest will be locked within until it is broken.  It will not simply fade with my death, as they expect.”

“And you didn’t think to _tell_ them this?”

Merlin stared off into some distance.  “I would have, if I’d known.  I was blind to the spell’s power.  I thought of their immediate safety and nothing else.  I knew we would pay a price.  That it would be so steep escaped me.”

“And now they are...cursed.”

Merlin sighed, regretfully.  “Yes.”

“And they believe otherwise.”

“They do.”

“Is this not a concern…”  Killian trailed off.  

_Of the living,_ he’d meant to say.  Then he realized, the living meant Emma.  The battle at the borderline may have been won – or so he assumed – but the hostilities weren’t guaranteed to stop.  In fact, with such a leaderless faction, the people would loot, there would be a contestation for power.  The very same chaos he’d left behind when he’d destroyed his own kingdom.  If not for Emma’s sake, then for the sake of _not_ making the same mistake twice, Killian grit his teeth, and said –

“What do I have to do?”

* * *

Emma watched the night pass from her bedroom window.  Though the breeze blowing in off the sea was cold, she let the glass swing wide open.  Leo, sweet thing that he could be, had sat with her until he could no longer stay awake.  He lay with his body sprawled over the windowsill, a knit blanket drawn over his shoulders, breathing evenly.

The night was a welcome reprieve.  Four days had passed since Killian’s death, and though the war had tapered off, there was still a heavy guard placed at the border.  The game for the throne had begun, and the players had started moving their pieces.  Given that Camelot was their neighbor, the contestation for power was sure to affect their borders, and Misthaven acted accordingly.  As much as Emma strategized alongside her mother and father, there was only so much they could do.  The people, their villages already in tatters, would suffer.  She had cried for Killian, and she had cried for Camelot, until all of the tragedies seemed to meld into one.  

Late in the night, at least, she could rest, and hold onto the sound of his voice, the way his coat felt beneath her fingers.  His hair, and his smile, eyes bright, of a shifting blue, like gemstones pulled up from beneath the mountains.

“Emma?”

She startled, but Leo did not wake.  Her parents, dressed in their shifts, peered into the room.  Emma nodded, and they came inside, padding quietly across the smoothly hewn floor.

“You should take him,” Emma said, gesturing to Leo, who slept peacefully through the noise.  “Before he twists something.”

Her father kissed her forehead before gathering her brother up in his arms.  He was really too big to be carried, but her father carried him nonetheless.  Emma wondered if they had imagined it too, another war tearing their family apart, robbing them of the chance to watch yet another child grow up in peace and safety.

“I know we haven’t had many chances to talk,” her mother said, sitting next to her on the lip of the window.  “How are you?”

Emma sighed, and a shudder tore through her body.  She was many things.  The urgency of battle, caught in a state between war and peace, it was a distraction.  But as much as the nights offered her the opportunity to remember Killian, it was also a chance to _mourn_ him, and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to do that just yet.

“I don’t know,” she said, quietly.  “I’ve just…”

“Not had enough time?” her mother guessed.

Emma nodded, and leaned against the stone abutting the window.

“I…”  She tried to stop it, pinched her side, and bit down on her lower lip.  But still, her eyes grew hot, and the tears began to spill over.  “He was so fucking _stubborn_.”  She looked apologetically at her mother, but she only smiled softly, and urged her to continue.  “I bet he knew.  I bet he _knew_ that he had to die.  Honestly, an ancient darkness tied to a _sword_?  A part of me must have known too…so why didn’t I just hold on tighter?”

“Oh, Emma.”  Her mother moved closer, until Emma could lean her head on her shoulder.  Together, they watched the stars.  They twinkled brightly, the sort of clear night that follows on a soft, evening rain.  “There’s nothing you could have done.  I won’t pretend to know him, but I will say that, if for nothing else, he gave his life because he loved you.”

Emma sniffled.  “How do you know?”

“That he loved you?  Why, he told me.  Or rather, I needled him about his intentions, and he confessed that he loved you, that he would never leave you.”

Emma sobbed, once, and dragged her hand over her face.  “But he _did_ leave me.”

“The people who die for us, they don’t leave, Emma.  It’s the opposite, I think.  They leave their mark, and are with us forever.”

It was exactly the sort of thing one might expect her mother to say.  A bright and hopeful speech.  Normally, Emma might scoff.  She had seen so much of the world, had watched the people of her own realm, and others, kill one another for land and power and wealth.  Since she was a child, she had known these things.

But…she could feel it.  She could _feel_ him.  Like he wasn’t quite gone.

“That’s stupid,” she said, and her mother laughed.  “But maybe you’re right.”

For some time, they sat together, and watched the night go by.  The moon tracked over the sky, and the insects of the night came to life.  Louder and louder they trilled, from the marshes near the port, and from the forest on the border of the castle grounds.  Without the aid of the power of the Dark One, it was a meager sound.  Soft, like she remembered.  Emma wondered if Killian, wherever he was, could feel and hear the same thing, if the absence of the darkness, the gentle silence, were a comfort, or a terrible reminder.  She supposed it didn’t matter to the dead.

“Tomorrow is the fifth day since the battle,” her mother said, when the moon had set, and a great streak of light filled the sky, like a celestial cloud behind the stars.

“I know.”

Emma knew what she was saying.  The fifth day was the customary day of burial and remembrance.  The bodies had been treated and wrapped.

_Bodies_ , she thought, another wave of sorrow churning in her gut.  Not only for Killian, but for the great mass of death that had burst from the earth itself.  She closed her eyes.

“I was thinking,” her mother said.  “We ought to hold a separate ceremony for your…”

“Killian?” Emma suggested.  Her mother smiled, softly.

“Your Killian, yes.  He was a hero.”

_Don’t let them call me a bloody hero, Swan._

Emma almost laughed.  His voice rang clear in her mind.  It was unlike his thoughts, leaking from the outside in, just an echo that she conjured up on her own.  But it was a precious reminder, all the same.

_Why not?_ she thought.

_It’s unbecoming.  I was a rogue, at most._

“He’d pretend to hate it,” Emma said, fondly.  “Let’s do it anyway.”

_Stubborn woman._

Her mother nodded, and she remained at Emma’s side.  She took the blanket Emma had thrown over Leo and tucked it around her shoulders.  Emma hadn’t been home much in the past several years, but when she was, her mother would often stay up late, and listen to her stories.  It felt…normal, almost, to do it again, though so much had changed.

“What was he like?” her mother said.  Her eyes twinkled, and Emma could see all sorts of romantic ideas in the expression on her face.

“Dark,” Emma answered, honestly.  “But…I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone struggle so hard against themselves.  He _hated_ the darkness.”

“When did you fall in love with him?”

Emma rolled his eyes.  “You don’t get to skip to the good parts of the story.”

Her mother only smiled, and waited.

Emma sighed.  “Well, it wasn’t a _single_ moment.  I’m not like Papa.  I didn’t, you know…look at his hair, and instantly know I wanted to marry him.  But, if you were to force me to pick…we had just boarded _Jack_ for the first time.  And he looked around at him…he was the _Dark One_ , and he was looking at my ship like he’d never seen anything like it.  He’d done terrible things, but he’d come back to himself, and look like he’d just joined the Navy or something, eager and wet behind the ears.  And I…”

She shrugged.  She thought of that journey, when he’d been so incredulous at the name, when he’d mourned _Jack_ like he was an old friend.  More tears slipped down her cheeks, but she stubbornly refused to wipe them away.

“I love him,” she said, quietly.  “I love him _now_.  But I can’t have him.”

“I know, sweetheart.”  Her mother reached out, and rubbed her back.  “What sorts of things did he like?”

Emma coughed, and spoke softly, hoarsely.  “You mean…for the ceremony?”  

When her mother nodded, Emma hesitated.  She recounted every moment, a quick flash of memory, weeks rolling by with no censure.  A flash of color in the darkness, bright little flowers like a river beneath the trees.  She heard Killian’s voice.

_I could never make anything grow._

“Flowers,” Emma said.  “He liked flowers.”

* * *

The next morning, Emma woke early.  It was a strange sensation, to sleep after so long without.  Though, she didn’t sleep much.  She dreamt of him, and it was too much, to wake without him there.

_You should be with me,_ she thought.   _You should be feeling this too._

So, she slept lightly, and woke quickly.  She dressed in fine, but practical things, and went to the war room, where her father was poring over a few maps.  He sighed, and his shoulders slumped.

“Papa,” she said, quietly.

He turned, and smiled.  His eyes crinkled up, the way that she knew, but they were dull.

“I hoped I’d never have to do this sort of thing again,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.  Me too.”

He looked pained, and shook his head.  “You’ve been through so much, Emma.  You’re so much stronger than your mother and me.  I wish I could have seen it all, watched you grow.  We missed so much.  And now I’m just thinking…how many other people are going through the same thing?  It’s heartbreaking.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Her father leaned hard on the table, his palms flat against the maps.  “I know.  There’s just so little we can do.  We can’t establish a government, we can hardly send aid.  It’s a rogue nation.  If only we could find Guinevere and Lancelot.  We can’t do this without them, their knowledge and wisdom.”

Emma winced.  When first she’d returned to Misthaven’s palace, she’d been certain that Guinevere and Lancelot would soon return to Camelot.  The spell on the Isle ought to have faded.  She didn’t know whether or not Aldan had returned, but the return of her parents might have been enough…had they arrived.  Her father had sent scouts, but they had been unable to find the Isle of Apples, mysteriously gone from where Emma told them it had been.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Her father smiled, and laid his hand on her shoulder.  “How many times do I have to tell you?   _Don’t_ be sorry.  This isn’t your fault.”

Emma nodded, and rested in comfortable silence for a while as they looked over the maps.

“We need to establish a consistent line of communication,” Emma said, at length.  Her father smiled, a proud expression, and she tried not to flush.  “Mother’s birds hate me…so how about a scouting line?  I know the way.  It’s not much, but it’s a start.  We need to know what’s going _on_ in Camelot.”

“Brilliant,” he said, and together they redrew the lines on the map.

It was a few hours of work, critical, and enough to distract Emma, until her mother pulled them away, and bid that they dress in their finery, ceremonial armor that gleamed in the morning light.  It was a clear, bright day, warm and scented with hints of summer, the flowers fallen, buds giving over to fruits.  She was intimately familiar with the ceremony, having attended several ever since she could remember.  Several dozen had perished in the heat of battle, the rest taken by the darkness, nothing remaining but memory.  Their graves had been dug in the cemetery upon the hill, a meadow that looked over both the port and the mountains behind it.  Her mother spoke of valor, of loyalty and honor, while sweet instruments played a quiet tune.  Her brother, unaccustomed to the ceremony, was bewildered.  He wore his most serious face, but he watched the families of those who had fallen receive a silver crest, and a sealed promise of fair and prompt payment of their loved ones’ wages, with a young and earnest expression.

“Was it always like this?” he whispered.

Emma answered honestly.  “Yeah.”

Later that evening, in the royal graveyard, no music, and no fanfare, Emma watched her friends and family gather around the grave of a man that none of them had known.  Though she was surrounded, she had never felt quite so alone.  As yet, there was no stone at the head, a perfectly symmetrical hole in the ground, with a simple, neatly carved and oiled casket.  It felt unreal to her, like a dream.  For all her whimsy, her mother bid that each of them drop flowers and flower petals into the grave, instead of a fistful of soil, as was customary.  Her gut churned as she watched each of them do so, solemnly.

_Listen to your gut, Swan._

No speeches were made, and evening slid quietly to night.  She imagined that Killian wouldn’t have minded such a ceremony.  It would have been his preference, simple and quiet.  Though he carried a good heft of bravado, he would so often demur under scrutiny, Emma wondered that he had managed to fool anyone.  

Even so, it didn’t feel quite right.  It wasn’t the ceremony itself that rankled.  It was the finality.  She knew that she should mourn, but the longer she stared down into the grave, flowers and their petals laying lank upon where his body lay, the harder her heart beat.

_He’s not done_ , she thought, wildly.

“What are you thinking, Emma?” her father said, when only she and her parents remained, well into the night.

She clenched her fists, looked her father in the eye, and said, “I’m going to find the Isle.”

* * *

Killian picked his way over the ghost of Camelot’s grounds.  They were in ruins, the towers and keeps turned over on their sides, the forest creeping up and over the rubble.  It was a fitting metaphor, if not a little bit on the nose for his tastes.  He muttered darkly as he searched.

“True love can break any curse,” Merlin had said.  “Or so it is believed.  One so powerful as this, tied to so many souls...I fear it will not be enough.  But Aldan has not come here to break it, in spite of the prophecy.  She believes that I and I alone have both the knowledge and the power to _restore_ it.  Though her people remain trapped within the Isle, its power will crumble, and they will be unprotected.  She wants to protect her family, fight in their place if need be.  It is her deepest wish.  Help her to find her way, to choose the _right_ path, and perhaps the curse will be broken.”

_Perhaps_ , Killian thought, disdainful.

Merlin had shimmered away not long after, claiming that he was not the waypoint of the journey, that he could no longer serve as its guide.  

“Go to Camelot,” he had said, and nothing more.  The earth below his feet had taken a deep breath, and then he was little more than motes caught on the wind.  

Frustrated, Killian had walked to the north, in great lurching stops and starts, until the castle appeared before him, its glory long since lost.

He didn’t remember much of the castle, save for the fact that it was where Emma had first been taken.  He remembered the crack of Arthur’s bones beneath the weight of his magic, and he curled his fingers at his side.

When he’d searched the outer ring of the castle, he climbed through to its innards.  Sweeping vines spilled out over the ruined stone.  It seemed that, as he wandered, night again turned to day, soft and unknowable light spilling into a central courtyard.  There, a great, and long dead willow tree sprawled out of the ground.  It seemed to be caught in repose, reaching up towards the sky.  Killian stepped carefully around it, stopping when he saw a young woman.  Her hand lay upon the tree.  She looked lost, a little broken, though her eyes were bright, and fierce.

“Aldan?” he called, hesitant.

The woman startled, and drew the sword at her side.  Killian remained slack where he stood.

“Who are you?” she said.  Her voice seemed louder than his own, or Merlin’s, splitting like the crack of a bell through the air.  

The voice of the living, he supposed.

“Aldan?” he repeated.

The woman only watched him, skeptical and unyielding, and though Killian could afford to remain unmoving for the rest of her days, he sighed, and gave in.

“Killian Jones,” he said, giving a brief and cheeky bow.  “I believe you might know me as the Dark One?”

She lowered her blade, stunned.  “ _You_ are the Dark One?”

“Aye.”

She hurriedly sheathed her sword, and stepped closer.  She paused, then, and tilted her head, suspicion warring against hope.  “How do you know my name?”

“We…”   _That is, Emma and I._  He swallowed.  “We were sent to find you.  Your parents are looking for you.”

Aldan looked chagrined.  “Oh, I’m certain that they are.  But I can’t go back, not until I find a way to repair the spell that protects them.  I was hoping _you_ could help me.”

Killian smiled ruefully, and scratched at the tender skin beneath his ear.  “About that, lass…I’m afraid it’s not a spell, but a curse.”

She did not seem phased.  “So?”

Incredulous, he leaned back on his heels.  “ _So_?  Your family is cursed, and this…”  He waved his hook in the air.  “…changes nothing?  You still wish to repair it?”

Aldan scowled.  “The Isle is my _home_.  I don’t care if it’s a curse or a hex or whatever else.  My family and friends, they’re safe, and won’t have to fight in any _war_.  Merlin had written that it would break, that we would repair the broken kingdom.  But he also wrote that it would come at the cost of many lives.  I won’t see my parents die.   _I’ll_ die, if I have to.”

Killian mirrored her stance and her expression.  The heir, she reminded him of Emma, casually reckless, and fiercely loyal.  Her face turned upwards, and her nostrils flared.  He tilted his head, and considered her quietly.

“The prophecy says that you are the true heir of Camelot,” he said.

“I don’t give a _damn_ about any prophecy.”

He smiled.  “Well that’s convenient, because neither do I.”

“I…”  Aldan appeared to deflate.  Clearly surprised, her face softened.  “You don’t?”

“Merlin asked – ”

Aldan reached out, and grabbed a hold of the sleeve of his coat, and he startled.

“ _Merlin_?” she breathed.  “Where is he?  When I came looking for you, and couldn’t find you, I found a way to come here.  But now I can’t find _him_ either.”

Killian sighed.  “He was here in the Underworld.  Alas, he...didn’t stay.”

She cursed.  “I would guess that it has something to do with all these damn prophecies.”

“You’d be right.  He asked that I guide you to break the curse...but frankly, lass, I have no moral high ground.  I will guide you back to the land of the living, if you would like, and from there you may do as you wish.  You’ll find that, if you know where to look, my castle has many things that can help you break a curse, _or_ repair one.”

Aldan hesitated, and turned to look back at the willow.  She reached out, and tugged at one of its blackened fronds.  For a moment, it appeared as though she might protest.  But she was clearly weary, a living person caught in the timeless, often formless realm of those who were dead.

“I _know_ the way to your castle,” she said.  “I’ll guide _you_ , and then you can show me where to look.”

Killian grinned, and gestured vaguely to the north.  “Lead the way, milady.”

* * *

Emma had expected her parents to protest when she’d offered to find the Isle.  After all, they’d only just gotten her back.

But then, perhaps they had been swayed by her fierce expression, or something else altogether, because her father had held her close, her mother’s hand on her back, and they had asked –

“What do you need?”

Travelling by aid of magic for such great distances was exhausting, but with the warm cloak and provisions her father had helped her pack away, she was well enough to stay on her feet.

It was curious, having to consider things like food and drink and rest.  She wondered if it was because it had been so long, or because Killian was not with her, that it all felt like ash in her mouth.  

It was not quite dark enough to follow the stars when she first arrived in Camelot’s wilds, and so Emma had found the nearest stream, and sat down to rest.  She forced herself to swallow several mouthfuls of salted and cured meat, chasing it down her throat with cool, fresh water.  So near to the Isle, she wondered if the fruits that Killian had loved would be growing nearby.

She did not look for them.

When the stars blinked to life, Emma pulled her cloak tight over her shoulders.  The swan twinkled just over head, and she followed its path deep into the woods.

Without the curse of the Dark One, the forest was pleasant.  The marshlands were not grim and dying, but soft, like a whisper.  Life chattered away as she passed by.  It was calming.  Emma had always preferred the sunrise, before she had been bound to darkness.  But now, she found that she preferred the night.

_So, you prefer darkness then, eh, Swan?_

“I do,” she answered.

Many hours passed as she wandered, and though Emma knew that the others had had no luck in finding the Isle, still she pushed forward.  She could _feel_ its magic, rasping uncomfortably against her own, weakened and unpredictable, but still the central town did not reveal itself.

“Hello?” she called, several times.

She heard no answer.

Emma circled back towards the south when she found nothing, combing the forest all over again.  She travelled until she arrived at a great escarpment that rose to the east.  She recalled the landmark, and many others, as she passed.  Each one a memory, a bitter hollow.

It was nearly morning when she walked from there down a slope in the land.  Emma grumbled as she went, and let her fingers trail over the bark of the trees, a rough texture that tied her to her own shadow, enough of a grounding that, when she caught sight of the clearing, she didn’t stumble.

_Flowers_ , she thought.  There were flowers _everywhere_ , the very Dutchman’s breeches she had tugged from a dying bramble.

_These are quite beautiful, aren’t they?_

Emma recalled just the way he had said it, quietly, the man peeking out from behind the monster.  He’d touched the flowers like they were the purest magic, like he’d never seen anything quite like them.  She also recalled the shape they had made, sluicing like a river through the trees, but whether it had been a trick of the spell that lay on the forest, or some other magic, they sprawled across the _entire_ slope in a beautiful, haphazard array.  An odd breeze seemed to rise from the ground, stirring the cloak over her shoulders.

“Killian,” she breathed.

* * *

“What’s Arendelle like?”

Aldan spoke eagerly.  When he had first begun to follow her, she was hesitant, and demanded only that he tell her enough to set her mind at ease.  She asked after her parents, and the rest of the Isle.  But the more questions she asked, the more it loosened her tongue, until every phrase from her mouth was a needling question.  She was young, like a bright light, and it would have been charming, if her questions did not poke at fresh wounds

“Cold,” he answered, shortly.

She gave him a _look_ , and pushed ahead.  “I would imagine so.  What else?”

He sighed.  “You’ll have to see for yourself, lass.”

“Once the curse is repaired, I doubt I will have much opportunity to travel.  I’ll be fighting a _war_ , remember?”

“All magic comes with a price.”

For some time, Aldan was silent, and Killian felt guilty.  But he didn’t know what else to say.  She had made her choice, and it wasn’t his place to comfort her.  His wretched life had been lived, and lost.  There was nothing he could offer.

“The woman you travelled with,” she said, at length.  “You loved her…didn’t you?”

Killian found that he didn’t have the energy to scowl, to refuse an answer.

“I still do,” he said.

“Is that what changed you?”

He stopped.  The light had once again faded to nothing, but still the escarpment up on the hill cast a long shadow.  Aldan turned, and watched him with an open expression.   _Too_ open, he thought.  She was all at once vulnerable and hardened.  She reminded him not only of Emma, but himself when he was young, when he’d thought the Royal Navy would be his salvation.

“Changed me?” he echoed.

“I know what you did,” she said.  Curiously, she did not sound angry.  “You destroyed your own kingdom...you sparked a revolution, drove the royalty out.”

“And yet…you still trust the man who did those things?”

Aldan shook her head.  “No.”

Killian winced, and gazed down at the ground.

“I don’t think that man exists anymore.”

He dared to look back up at her, but found no censure.  “Oh?”

“I read your journals.”

Killian stood straight, alarmed.  “You _what_?  How?  Those are protected.”

Aldan wiggled her fingers.  “I have magic.  True love, and all.”

He grumbled.  “Of course.  The trouble caused me by women bearing the mark of true love is just immeasurable, at this point.”

Aldan said nothing, only pushed ahead, walking further down towards where the land sloped into a valley.  It was a familiar path, one that Killian had walked before.  The brush crumpled beneath his feet.  Without the curse, it was a calm place.  Though, in the shadows of the strange, unliving light, it was a bit haunting.

“We read your journal too,” he said, when the silence had settled.  

Aldan snorted.

“Dammit,” she said.

Killian smiled.  He meant to quip at her, when a breeze gusted through the wood.  Chilly, and living, it carried a voice.

_Killian._

“Emma?”  He listened, but heard nothing.  A few more steps down the hill, and the brush parted to reveal a sprawling meadow of Dutchman’s breeches, bright and young and beautiful.  He leaned down, and touched the petals.  They were textured, and soft, halfway between living and not.  He laughed.

“What are these?” Aldan said, reaching down to poke at the nearest bush.  “Everything here seems dead.  But theme seem as though they’re…alive.”

“I think they are, lass.”  He leapt to his feet.  “I think Emma’s here.”

Startled, Aldan turned around.

“No, not _here_.”  He gestured up towards the canopy.  “ _Here_.  In the forest, in the realm of the living.  I wonder…”

Killian did not hesitate.  Perhaps he would have, in years past.  If nothing else, Emma had cracked him open, and poured hope where before there was only darkness.  It was with that hope, then, that he slashed away at the bark of the trees.

Aldan eyed him, skeptically.  “ _What_ are you doing?”

“Sending a message,” he said.  He stepped back when he was finished.  “It will have to do.”

* * *

“Killian!” Emma called.

She heard no response, but her heart thudded unevenly.  She looked at the meadow behind her.  It was as though she could feel him breathing at her neck.  She wondered if she’d gone mad, when she turned once more, and caught sight of deep gashes in the tree just before her.  Emma leaned forward, and traced the indent.  It was a letter, she realized, the letter _I_.  There were others as well.  A _C_ carved in a young beech, an _R_ in a middling ash.  Emma stepped back, and then to the side.  Her stomach lurched when the trees all aligned, and spelled: _IT’S A CURSE_.

“A curse...” she said.  “On the _Isle_?  Oh, what the _hell_.”

Spells could be banished, but curses were bound to blood.  It had weakened after Merlin’s death, but Emma suspected it was shared among many.  To be so enduring, and so powerful, it would have to be.

She knew curses.  Her mother had been placed under a sleeping curse, and her father as well.  Her own mind had been cursed once, one of forgetfulness, meant to spread hopelessness when her people were still embroiled in a battle with the Evil Queen.  And each time, they were broken.

“By true love,” she whispered.  

Her heart thudded once more, a painful lurch when she thought of Killian.  She turned, and was grateful to be distracted by another row of trees.  She stepped to the side, and again, the trees aligned: _I HAVE ALDAN._

With such a clear and obvious reference to himself, tears gathered in her eyes.  If Killian had found Aldan in the Underworld, Emma wondered if she would return the way she had gone, through the pool behind Killian’s castle.  It was a long way to travel by magic, but with such a powerful curse...she wondered if true love might not be enough.  As it was, the Isle was hidden away.  If Aldan wished to break the curse, she would need _more_.  More time, more power, more help.

Once more, Emma turned, and a row of saplings spelled simply: _CASTLE_.

She did not hesitate.  

_Trust_ , she thought, in his voice.

Emma summoned all the magic she possessed, and disappeared in a cloud of white.

* * *

“You do not _have_ me,” Aldan protested.

Killian shrugged.  “She’ll know what I mean.”

She grumbled, but led on nonetheless.  She walked quickly, now, with purpose.  The climes changed beneath their feet, from marshland to grassland, grassland to steppe.  The mountains rose and fell in a flurry of noise.  It was like a painting, still wet, dripping to a blur of colors.

“I hope I don’t ever have to come back here,” Aldan said, when she stopped to rest.  “I feel ill.”

Killian patted awkwardly at her back.  “I would think this is an illusion of some kind.  It’s all quite unreal.”

She huffed.  “It feels real to _me_.”

He nearly said, _Perhaps it will be different when you die_.  But, curiously, he did not want to think of Aldan dying.  Instead, he waited while she steadied on her feet.

“What will happen when we arrive at your castle?” she said.

“I’ll show you where you ought to snoop.  Emma will be there, in the realm above.  She can help you.”

Aldan frowned.  “You’re not coming?”

“I’m _dead_ , lass.  I doubt I’ll be able to walk out of the Underworld’s front door.”

“And that’s it?  What if I can’t find what I’m looking for?”

“You don’t strike me as the sort to give up.  I’m certain you’ll find a way.”

She flushed, and fiddled with the pommel of her sword.

“I’ve collected many things throughout my years as the Dark One, and even before that, when I wandered the jungles of Neverland.  I’ve never personally tried to _repair_ a curse before, but I have a few things in mind that ought to be able to help you.”

Aldan’s eyes widened comically.  “You’ve been to _Neverland_?”

He smiled.  “Aye.  You are welcome to nose back through my journals, if you wish.  There are more on the fourth level.”

“Oh.”  She blinked.  “You don’t...mind?”

Killian waved her off.  “I find I care less and less for the land of the living the longer I roam the land of the dead.”

It rang false.   _Emma_ , he thought, a hollow in the pit of his belly.  He bit down on nothing, and gestured weakly.

“Shall we go?” he said.

Aldan tilted her head, curious.  She hesitated, but then nodded, resolute.  “Yes.”

She led them further to the north.  The great seas were like puddles, crossed over in a stride.  Small streams swelled to rivers.  It was dizzying, often unrecognizable.  Time had no purpose there, and so when they arrived in the north, it could have been hours, or weeks.  It could have stuttered backwards, and he wouldn’t have known.

Though his castle too was warped by whatever strange magic pervaded the Underworld, Killian could never forget the distinctive roll and wave of the northern isles, nor the lonely mountain that rose amongst the scrublands.   The castle was in ruins, the doors broken, hanging from warped hinges.  When he stepped inside, great, broken maws in the stone let the unnatural light pour in over the shelves.  They were in terrible disarray, every item merely a shadow of its true self.  The bottles and jars were all empty.  No matter, it would serve his purpose.

“This is the ugliest place I think I’ve ever been,” Aldan said, distastefully, stepping over a knot of broken stone.

Killian snorted.  “It’s seen better days in the lands above, I assure you.”

“Yes, I’ve _been_ there.  It was still ugly.”

He glared at her.  “To each their own, lass.”

She muttered quietly, and he elected to ignore her.  He made for the shelves, but was caught off guard by the book lying at his feet.

“My ledger,” he whispered.

“Your what?”

Killian did not answer.  A familiar tremble began at the base of his spine, and his hand shook when he picked it up.

Only...it was blank.  The blood magic, tied to his own life, had gone.  Though he knew the same had happened in the realm above, he had wondered if the afterlife would keep a more careful record of his sins.

“Did you use invisible ink?” Aldan wondered, peering over his shoulder.

Killian shook his head, and let it fall, unceremoniously, to the ground, a cloud of dust kicking up in its wake.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Determined, he walked to the shelves, and studiously ignored every wretched thing he saw, save for one, small empty bottle.  He followed the path of the enchanted stairs, Aldan behind him.  She poked and prodded at the walls, picked up every curious thing she saw.  Killian didn’t protest, only set his jaw and kept moving forward, showing her any number of things that could possibly help her on her way – spell tomes and historical writings and bureaus full of awful, grisly things.

“Curses are a terrible business,” he said, gently, at the look of horror on her face.

Aldan only nodded, and listened carefully as he described the purpose of each item.

When nothing else remained but to return to the realm of the living, she sighed.  “Terrible business indeed.”

Killian nodded, regretfully, and led her to the top level, where a pile of rubble spilled out towards the pool from whence she came.  When they stood at the water’s edge, he handed her the empty bottle he’d taken from the ground floor, and smiled softly.

“Uh...thank you,” she said, confused.

Killian tilted his head.  “There are two choices.  This you know.”

Aldan stood straighter.  “I do.”

“If you would still prefer to repair the curse, then so be it.  I would warn you against the wards upon the things I showed you, but any spells I have cast would have gone with me.  Besides that, I sense that you’re much more powerful than I ever was.”   _Like Emma_ , he thought.  “To aid you in your quest, I hereby bequeath the castle and all its contents to you.”

Clearly taken by surprise, Aldan’s lashes fluttered.  “...alright?”

Killian smiled, wryly.  “Do with it what you will.  I no longer have any need for it.”  He paused, then, and stepped closer, catching her eye.  “Aldan…I cannot pretend to know you, but allow me to offer you a bit of wisdom, if I can call it that.  

“Sacrifice is certainly a noble course of action.  If you repair this curse, your family will be safe, and if you _do_ fall, you will do so knowing that you gave your life in their stead.  But I wonder...how will they react?  Knowing they could have helped you...if only they were not rendered powerless.    Trust me, lass, it is a terrible fate.  Perhaps, if you broke the curse, and faced the threat as one, any tragedy you might bear would not be quite so bitter.”

Aldan sighed, and looked into some distance, over his shoulder.  Her brow knitted.  She appeared to consider him.

“Do you think that I could?” she said, quietly.  “Break it, I mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but if you change your mind...I have something that could help you...I think.”

Killian reached up and plucked a hair from his own head.  He lifted the cork from the bottle in Aldan’s hand, and dropped it in.

She made a face.  “What’s _this_ for?”

“When you arrive, ask Emma to do the same.  If she feels as I hope she does, this might help you.”  He swallowed, and looked down at his feet.  “True love may not be enough, but between your magic, and Emma’s, and _this_...it’s a start.  You will find a way.”

Aldan hesitated, and a fog began to roll in off the pool.  A boatman appeared, a great stave in his hands.  He rowed slowly through the water, the robes on his back flowing gently.  Killian knew the pool was not deep enough to support such a vessel, but the threads of reality stretched and yawned here in the Underworld.  So he paid it not mind, and instead watched, flushed, as Aldan impulsively threw her arms around him.  It was brief, and awkward, but genuine.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Please, lass, don’t thank me.  Just…think about what I said.”

“I will.”

And then she was gone.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love and gratitude to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this fic. Only the epilogue remains! I'm so sad to see this come to close, but also so grateful for your support! The epilogue will be posted on Wednesday.

Emma watched, with both great sorrow, and great joy, as the world began to shift.

Aldan had returned from the Underworld with a single strand of Killian’s hair, and the seeds planted for a change of heart.  After she had quietly asked for a strand of Emma’s own hair, she had gazed longingly up at the sky, where the hands of Killian’s lonely mountain reached up towards the stars.  Then, they’d both watched, captivated, as the strands of their hair twisted together, two unbreakable threads of magic glowing brightly in the little bottle.  Emma had hardly been able to appreciate the moment, to dwell upon the fact that the love she and Killian shared was true, surmounting death itself.  The magic swirling in the bottle, it had felt _alive_ , as much as he was not...  

But Aldan, eager to carry on and still apparently determined to repair the curse, had gathered some things from the castle, and hefted them over her shoulder.  With her and Emma’s magic combined, it was a simple matter to return to the Isle.

“But how did you get _in_?” Leo asked, eagerly.

It had been a few weeks since, and now she and her family were welcomed to Camelot.  Though the unrest lingered, the wisdom and influence brought by Guinevere and Lancelot had cowed all those who had been contesting the crown.  A crowning ceremony was held on the castle grounds, a symbol of both hope and intent, meant to encourage those who had lost so much, and to discourage those who might spark a civil war.  Leo, of course, ate it up.  He’d _begged_ their parents to attend the crowning of Guinevere, and the declaration of Princess Aldan.  But after sitting through what he considered a very stuffy and boring ceremony, he’d demanded to walk the grounds, and to hear the story of her adventure.

“This is where we first saw Mordred,” she would say, as they walked.  Or, “Don’t tell mother and father that I told you…but this is where the king died.”

Leo would listen, eyes bright and attentive.

“Aldan does have magic, you know,” Emma answered.

“Yeah, but so do you, and you couldn’t get in.”

She shrugged.  “The curse was weakened when Merlin died.  The magic was unstable, but it seemed to recognize its own blood.  When Aldan prodded at the barrier, it opened for her.”

“And she listened to Killian,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Well, sort of.  I think it was her parents who really talked her into it, though it didn’t take much.  She let the magic in the bottle go free, and that weakened the curse.  Aldan and I did all that we could to tear it down.  It nearly sapped us to death, but we managed to shatter it.  The true love not of _one_ was not enough, but of many, that’s what did it, I think.  Our parents’, Aldan’s, mine and Killian’s…” She paused, and swallowed past the lump in her throat.  “… _that_ was enough.”

“Wow.”

Leo seemed to consider this while they wandered down towards the port, where the sun set over the horizon.  It was a beautiful sight, a gradual shift from blue to yellow to orange, a graded curtain tugged from east to west.  The noises of a kingdom in muted celebration rose above the sounds of the waters.  It was melancholy, a bittersweet return of a people to their own home, one that had changed beyond recognition.  Emma was certain the trade between Camelot and Misthaven would indeed take place, though she imagined it would be years before the former regained its old glory, that there would be resentment and deadly skirmishes.  But then, she supposed, these were the prices paid for war and revolution.  She looked down at her brother, and was glad that in this, at least, he had not been forced to grow up before he was ready.

“They’ve built a memorial to you and Killian by the battlefield,” Leo said, suddenly.

Emma groaned.  “Leo, seriously, I _know_.  You’ve told me a million times.”

“Well, aren’t you going to visit?”

She sighed, and patted his shoulder.  “It’s…hard.”

She wondered if he might ask more questions, but he only nodded, as though he understood more than he ought to.  Again, they were quiet, until soft steps echoed down along the boardwalk.  Emma turned, and saw both Aldan and her parents approaching.  She gave Leo a playful, gentle shove.

“Why don’t you go get into trouble up in the castle?” she said.

Petulant, he glared at her.

“There’s a secret passage behind the throne room,” Emma taunted.

Leo only hesitated a moment, before he gave the royals of Camelot a quick hello and goodbye and ran up the hill.

Guinevere laughed.  “Your brother certainly has spirit.”

Emma agreed.  “He’ll make a better ruler than I ever could.”

Lancelot stepped forward, and she didn’t hesitate to step into his arms.  He patted her back before stepping away.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said, warmly.  “Good to see your mother and father again as well.  That’s a reunion I never quite dared to hope for.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they did either.”

For a moment, Emma simply basked in their presence.  She was tired, and she felt a little hollow.  Everything was a reminder, some more pleasant than others.  She had only to listen to hear Killian’s voice on the breeze, but with each passing moment, it felt more and more unreal, as though she was only conjuring what she remembered.  Her smile faded, and she sighed, looking over their shoulders at the rise of the trees beyond.

“We wanted to thank you,” Guinevere said, quietly, at length.  “Our kingdom would be lost without you.  And…although I know I had my doubts, and my reservations, if your companion were here…”  She paused, and laid her hand on Emma’s shoulder.  “…I would thank him as well.”

Emma bit down on nothing, and willed herself not to cry, not where they could see.  She took a deep, unsteady breath.

“He wouldn’t accept it,” she said, sounding weaker than she would have liked.

“I know,” Guinevere said.  “And that’s part of why I would do so anyway.”

Emma nodded furiously and Guinevere tugged her into her arms.  Over her shoulder, Aldan smiled, and when they pulled apart, she stepped forward.

“So, this is what it’s like?” she said, conspiratorially.

Emma tilted her head.  “What?”

“Having to be a princess, after…everything that’s happened.”

Emma laughed, humorless.  “Yeah, it’s not easy.  But, you know…if you ever need an escape…my ship should be repaired by the season’s end.  I can take you wherever you’d like to go.”

Aldan nodded.  “I’d like that.”

When they said goodbye, an earnest invitation to come whenever Emma would like on their lips, she turned back towards the horizon.  Darker, now, with stars peeking out from behind the veil of light.  She listened, intently, but she could only hear the waves, and the evening creatures, a song, soft and sonorous.  She closed her eyes, and listened harder still.  Though she felt some measure of triumph, in that moment, it felt as though Killian were really gone.  Neither his voice, nor the impression of his breath against her neck, followed her.  

She was alone.

* * *

Aimless, Killian wandered the land of the dead.

It was the loneliest place he had ever been.  After Aldan had left, the map of the world had folded tighter still.  One step from the northern isles brought him back to a young forest north of Camelot.  For some time, he’d simply remained, watching night roll to day, and then back again.  As long as he stayed, it seemed that he could feel a whisper on the air, a breath of life amongst the dead, as though Emma still lingered with him.  He supposed that, if he continued on from Camelot’s Underworld counterpart, he might shimmer away, as Merlin had.  He wasn’t sure if he was ready.

But then, on perhaps the twelth cycle of light to dark, Killian became unbearably tired.  The thread of connection that he felt with Emma was as much a burden as it was a comfort.  With a deep hollow in his chest, no heart to speak of, he travelled towards the east, where he hoped the sea would await.

As he walked through the forest, he imagined the smell of pine, of decaying leaves, all crushed beneath his feet.  That wet, earthy, salty smell that he associated with Emma.  He lingered there, though it was not long before he found the sea.  Unsurprisingly, it was as dead as the rest of the Underworld, like a thin sheet of glass, suspended over a sandy slope that descended quickly into darkness.

And yet...as he approached, he could feel a breeze on his face.  A _real_ breeze, rocking gently through his hair, and through the open clasps on his shirt and vest.  He stepped closer, and the waters came to life.  The glass shattered, and waves began to roll along the sand.  It was as though a great hand had painted the sun in the sky, warm light upon his face.  He paused, and looked down, where his boots sunk into the sand.  Eager, almost violent, he wrenched them off, and the stockings beneath.  The sand was between his toes, and then his fingers when he crouched down.  It was all so _real_.

He laughed.

“Hello, Killian.”

Killian nearly fell when he leapt back to his feet, and turned to find an unfamiliar man, wearing unfamiliar clothes.  A light seemed to shine from behind his eyes, and when he smiled, the sand shifted beneath their feet.

“Who are you?” Killian said.

“I am Zeus,” he answered.

Bewildered, Killian rocked back on his heels.  “As in…the king of Mount Olympus?”

Zeus nodded.  “One in the same.”

Killian looked around at the beach.  In Zeus’s presence, the unnatural light drained away, leaving behind a familiar scene.  Far in the distance, white sails like clouds appeared on the horizon.  The water was terribly clear, like a warbled window through which to view the sandy bottom, _life_ skirting about in the sediments.  He turned back to the god.

“If that’s true…where is Hades?  Is this not the Underworld?”

“It is, indeed.  But I’m afraid, in this lifetime, that is someone else’s story.  My brother has long since left death behind, and in his wake, I believe there is one who was once king of the living, who may find himself a much better king of the dead.”

Zeus’s eyes sparkled, and Killian caught his meaning.

“King Arthur,” he guessed.

“Yes.  But…”  The god stepped forward, and laid his hand on Killian’s shoulder.  “…Killian Jones, _your_ story can end here.”

“What do you mean?”

Zeus gestured towards the ships on the horizon.  They were drawing nearer.  “Those ships can take you home, should you wish it, where your brother awaits.  You can move on, and rest.”

Killian sighed, a long, low huff of breath.  Oh, how he _ached_ for it.  His unearthly body felt like a leaden weight.  To ride out upon an endless sea, to never turn back, to spend his life as one with the water he so loved.

But then –

“ _Should_ I wish it?” he echoed.

Zeus smiled, brilliantly.  “You must make a choice.  Either, you can move on, or, you can go back to the land of the living.  Back to Emma.”

Unbidden, Killian made a soft, sorrowful noise.  All at once, he was torn in two.  He looked longingly at the horizon, and then back at the forest.

“Why?” he said, roughly.  “Why not just let me die?”

“I have watched you for a long time, Killian.  Though you may not think yourself worthy, for decades you hid the curse of the Dark One from the realm above.  At the end of your days, you chose to spend your life to protect it from even _more_ darkness.  The magic taken from the lapis manalis is a powerful thing, but you chose to banish it.”

“It was Emma’s light that banished it,” he protested.  “I was merely a conduit.  I did nothing that was not in payment for the sins I committed, of my _own_ volition.”

Zeus hummed, thoughtfully.  “And now those sins have been washed away.  You may spend the rest of these unending days on the sea, or you may take my reward.  It is wholly up to you.”

Cowed by the god’s generosity, Killian looked down at his feet, before following a line of sand to the water.  Mesmerized, he walked towards the sea.  The further he went, the closer the ships appeared.  The water was cool on his feet, even cooler as it lapped at his knees.  Sand gave way to cobble, rough against his toes.  It was then that he felt just exactly as a man who had lived three hundred years.

“I’m so tired,” Killian whispered.  The wind caught it, and he felt what those unending days might be like.  Storms that did not kill, currents that led to new ports.  The horizon would never give way, never turn back on itself.  He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he turned back to look at Zeus.

“Have you made your choice?” the god asked.

“Aye.”

* * *

Early the very next morning, Emma walked the castle grounds.  She had shed her finery, and tugged on her trousers and boots.  Eager to spend time with their old friends, her parents had elected to stay another day.  Feeling the raw scrape of watching the happy reunions of others, Emma took the day to wander on her own.

Too familiar with the woods of the north, she ventured south, where instead of thick forest, the land sloped down low, into sparse groves and marshlands.  Fresh young grasses lined the sluggish waters.  When the sun broke over the horizon, it painted a beautiful portrait, and in that, at least, there was comfort.  The further she went, the more beautiful it became.  Untouched by the hands of the people, the landscape was lush, all sorts of creatures chattering as they woke with the light.

_They’ve built a memorial to you and Killian by the battlefield._

Emma sighed.  Though the beauty of Camelot’s wilds was distracting, it was not enough to fool her into forgetting that, in just the direction that she travelled, they spilled out onto the battlefield, and some sort of stone edifice had been built near the place that he had died.  Through aid of Regina’s magic, it had been built nearly a week ago.  But Emma could not bring herself to visit, no matter how her brother needled her, or how many times her parents asked if she’d like to go.

 _I can’t feel you anymore_ , she thought.

Emma had held onto him as long as she could, but in the evening past, the specter of his memory had taken its last breath.  She wondered if returning to the place he had fallen would bring it back to life.  Briefly, she thought that she might ask her brother to go with her, his bright young face enough to counter whatever sorrow she might find.

But then, petulantly, she thought, _I_ want _to be sad._

In a swirl of magic, Emma found herself in the trees just beyond the battlefield, near the place where she had kissed Killian last.  Though she bit down on her lower lip, with nearly enough pressure to make herself bleed, the tears still gathered in her eyes.

“Dammit,” she said.

Alone by the field, she did not bother swiping at her face.

Emma counted several minutes gone by before she could muster the courage to step out into the open.  The moment she did, the light bathed a stone structure upon the hill.  She walked closer, unsteady on her feet, and could first make out the swirling tail of Killian’s coat, the sword in his hand.   _Not_ Excalibur –

“If I have to look at that sword on a statue for the rest of my life, I will punch you in the face,” she’d said, when Regina had asked.

– but his own cutlass, the one he’d taken from _Jack_ ’s hold.  It was all carved from some kind of deep, glistening stone, and it glittered brilliantly in the morning sunshine.  When Emma walked around to the other side, she could see herself, facing the other direction, caught in a similar battle pose, her sword held aloft.

“I am _not_ that much shorter than you,” she told it, as though it could answer, as though _he_ lived somewhere inside.  “But it’s…nice.”

It really was beautiful, but Emma could hardly stand to look at it any longer.  Killian looked so fierce, and so _alive_ , that more tears dripped down off her chin.

“It just…”  She cried, and stepped back.  The ground, still deadened from the battle, gave way beneath her feet.  “…it feels like now, you’re really gone.”

When she could bear it no more, she turned, and instead looked out over the hills.  They were little more than mud and muck, the decayed bits and pieces of whatever had been left behind, roots starved for water and sustenance.  It was a terrible sight.  Emma walked towards the west.  She felt she owed it, at least, to all else who had died, to pay her respects.  Each step was more difficult than the last, but she pressed forward, until the final, ugly scar disappeared, and only grass and forest lay ahead.  

She paused, and looked up at the sky.

It was curious, really, how it happened.  One moment, the sky was deathly quiet, as though it mourned alongside her.  Then, a flash of light, and a pulse of powerful magic nearly knocked her off her feet.  She shook her head, and wondered if she truly _had_ gone mad.  The ground beneath her feet, still fraught with oleaginous decay, began to swell with life.  She turned, and watched flowers spill out of the ground, and down along the hillocks.

“Did _I_ do that?” she wondered aloud.

A voice came on the wind, and though at first it felt like a trick, she looked up, and saw a dark figure stumbling over the nearest hill.

“Swan!” he called, over and over again, clearly now.  “Swan!”

Emma could only whisper his name in answer.  She waited for him to disappear, for the wind to take him.  But whatever powerful magic had brought him to her, it continued to work.  It was not a cruel trick, whether of her own mind or someone else’s.  For just a moment longer, she watched a beautiful, colorful meadow grow, and then looked back at him.

“Killian?” she said, louder this time.

She ran.  Emma _ran_.  Killian, who still appeared unsteady, did the same.  More than once, he fell to his knees, and hefted himself back up.  She probably should not have leapt on him like she did, when she met him at a dip in the valley, arms and legs thrown around him.  But he caught her all the same, and crushed her to his chest.

“Oh, Emma,” he cried.  “Emma, my Swan, my _love_.”

“Killian,” she answered him, nearly shouted his own name in his face.  He only laughed and laughed while she kissed his face, his ears, his neck, everywhere she could reach.

“What,” she said, and kissed the swell of his cheek, just where it met his nose.

“How,” she said, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, missing and getting him again by the nose.

“ _Where_ ,” she said, and kissed his temples, burying one hand in his hair, the other holding on tight to his shoulders, and sure to never let go.

“How are you _here_?” she said, and she pulled back just far enough to look at him.  His smile was brighter than she’d ever seen.  No darkness in his posture, and none in his face.  The skin by his eyes crinkled, until only slits of blue looked up at her.

“Zeus,” he said, his breath warm and wet over her mouth.  “He sent me back.  He told me that I could move on, or that I could come to you.  I almost went, Emma, I _almost_ left, I was so tired, I was _so tired_.”

“I don’t care,” she told him.  “You’re _here_ , I don’t care.”  

His arms began to quiver, and she slid down his body, familiar dips and curves against her own.  His coat, she realized, glowed brighter than she’d ever seen it.  Even when she let him go, it _still_ flared.  Killian followed her line of sight.

“This bloody _coat_ ,” he said, and nearly tore it off.  The moment it left him, its light burnt out, and he pulled her back into his arms.  A proper kiss, then, or not so proper, his mouth opening against hers.  She stood on his toes, and he grunted, a puff of air against her lips before he leaned back, laid his hand on her neck, and tilted until he could seal his mouth over hers.  It had not been long since last she’d held him, but there was no clock, nothing to do, so when he pulled away, panting into the side of her neck, she let him rest, before turning to the other side and kissing him again, and _again._

“I love you,” she said, nearly leaping up to throw her arms around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder.  Her jaw ached, and her lips were swollen, but she would kiss him for the rest of their days, for the rest of _time_ , if she could.

When at last the frenzy faded, Emma pulled back once more, her hands wandering over his face.  Though she had spent nearly a month and a half looking at him day and night, there was something new about him.

“I’ve never seen you when you weren’t filled with darkness,” she said, fingers still searching.

He smiled, harder, if that were possible.  “Aye, Swan, and I caught only a glimpse of you before…well, you know.”

“First rule,” she said, hands smoothing over his brow.  “No talking about the dying thing.”

“The dying thing,” he echoed.  “Aye, Swan, whatever you say.”

Emma laughed, for no other reason than she felt that she could.  Again, she buried her hands in his hair, and tilted her head.

“Your hair’s changed,” she said.

The nearly hysterical edge to his smile faded, and he looked at her warmly.  “Many things have changed, my love.”  He looked briefly down at his feet, where fresh young growth still curled up out of the ground, where once it was ugly and scarred.  Then, quietly, “For one...I could never make anything grow.”

A fresh wave of tears began to flow down her face when he looked back up at her.

“Please,” she said.  “Please, don’t leave me again.”

“Never,” he answered, leaning down until his forehead pressed against her own.  “ _Never_.”

“You’re dying _with_ me next time.  I swear to the gods, Killian, I will come down there and get you if you go earlier.”

“Aye, love,” he said.  “As you say.”

He kissed her once more, before she tugged on the collar of his shirt, and rested her cheek against his.

“What the bloody hell is _that_?” he said.

Emma looked over her shoulder, where the sun split around the memorial.  “Oh, it’s a statue of you and me.”

He was clearly bewildered.  “Whatever for?”

“You saved so many people, Killian.  You’re so blind to it, but you’re a _hero_.”

She considered it a win when he only nodded.  She folded herself back in his arms, gently this time, and tucked her head under his chin, so she could listen to his heart beat just behind his ribs, beneath warm, mortal flesh.  There she remained, for some time, until Killian leaned down, and spoke, lips brushing the whorl of her ear, as he gazed over at the memorial.

“I’m not _that_ much taller than you, Swan.”

And Emma laughed.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bid for the power born of true love, King Arthur binds Emma to the broken blade Excalibur. Unbeknownst to him, Killian Jones is bound to the other half, having given himself over to the darkness in order to exact his revenge on Rumpelstiltskin. He frees Emma from King Arthur’s control, sparking the beginnings of war between Camelot and Misthaven, and a quest to rid her of the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s so bittersweet to be posting the very last part of this story. I’m very grateful to everyone who read/kudos'd/commented/etc. I absolutely could not have done this without ripplestitchskein, who served as beta/plot master/shoulder to cry on every step of the way, and unfolded73, who read through this when it was still a mess. I hope you guys enjoy this epilogue! Warnings for this chapter: Smut.

_Two Months Later_

Emma couldn’t sleep.

Or, rather, she _could_ sleep, but she didn’t want to.

It was early yet, a faint, golden light seeping in through the open windows, casting a glow over the stone walls of her bedroom.  She watched it arc higher and higher from the sill of the window nearest the bed.  The light caught on the edges of mirrors, on the gilded whorls around the paintings she had brought into her bedroom since Killian had come to sleep beside her.  Lilies and buttercups and forget-me-nots, that sort of thing, erupting into unnatural shades when the light passed over the paint.  

Emma pushed the window open a little wider, and the warm, muggy breeze limped past.  It smelled sweet, like summer rot and overheated water, a touch of salt.  Wearing nothing more than a thin shift, the heat still grabbed at her neck, and the backs of her ears.  Early in the spring, she’d thought she might never see summer again.  Watching the ships bob in the water – one in particular – Emma couldn’t find it in herself to be irritated by the oppressive weather.

“What are you doing, Swan?”

Emma turned, and saw just one, overbright blue eye peering at her from half beneath a flat pillow.

Killian, as it were, could sometimes sleep for days.

She had wondered if it was because he’d not slept for so long.  Scratching at the back of his neck, he had admitted that he wasn’t sure, that he’d forgotten what his sleeping habits used to be like.  

Sometimes, though, he would hardly sleep at all, when she’d coax him out of nightmares, thrashing restlessly throughout the night.  Others, like this very morning, he was _completely_ unmoving for hours at a time, his head tucked beneath the closest thing that he could find, living or not, his back bare to the room, whether it was cold or hot.  His arms would sprawl, and his neck would twist.

It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen.

And also, the most charming thing she had ever seen.

“Just…watching the sunrise,” she said, and shrugged.

Killian reached out, his hand lying where she had been.  He flexed his fingers, and lifted his head, the other eye coming out to join the first.

“Come back to bed, won’t you?” he said.

Emma leapt off the sill, and crossed the room.  One knee on the bed, she twisted her hands in her shift.

“Take this off?” she said.

Killian grinned, and kicked at the sheets until he was bare, stretching languorously.

“Whatever you want, darling,” he answered, though there was twinkle in his eye.  

Emma tugged at the shift until she was nude as well, and lay beside him.  He twisted until he could gather her in his arms, his nose pressed against her cheek.  She could feel it, when he smiled, and she smiled in turn, reaching up to bury her hand in his hair.  With the other, she caressed the tender skin over his collar, and down from there, where wry hair curled down towards his belly.  For some time, he lay with her, eyes closed, lashes fanning out over his cheeks.  When he breathed, she could feel it, a cool rush of air that belied the heat of his body.

“What are you thinking?” he said, quietly.

“That I can’t believe we have to wait until the afternoon.”

He snorted.  “Your parents want to see you off, Swan, I can’t say that I blame them.”

“But why the _afternoon_?”

Killian leaned back, and there was a flush in his cheeks.  He turned his head, beard scratching against the silk while he looked somewhere over her shoulder.

“Perhaps they’d rather not come anywhere near us in the morning,” he said.

Emma cringed, and thought briefly of the very moment her mother had found them in an antechamber to a small ballroom in the east wing, nearly undressed.

“Oh.”

“ _Oh_ ,” he echoed, and laughed.

_At least we get to be out on the water by evening_ , she thought.

For a moment, she almost expected him to answer her thoughts.  He didn’t, of course, but it was the same with food, or with sleep, or anything else the darkness had taken.  It had left its mark, and often, food and drink would be tasteless, sleep would be fruitless.  Killian’s hand and hook would shake, violently, left unsatisfied by magic he no longer possessed.  Emma would reach for him, and sometimes he would pull away, gazing off into some distance, where she couldn’t follow.

_I was so tired_ , he’d said, when she’d met him on the battlefield.  He still was.

She hoped the sea would help him.  It would help _her_ , she knew.  Minor repairs and a great deal of magic had brought _Jack_ back to Misthaven’s ports, where he could be hauled up into the shipyard, enchanted wood brought to bear upon the wounds he’d taken in the north.  There were many days when, absent anything else to do, and still hurting from war and strife and _death_ , of all things, they’d wander the beaches.  No boots or stockings, kicking at the waves until day turned over into night, stars reflected on the calm waters of the harbor.  Killian would bend down, and pluck at a shell, or a rock nearly buried in the sand.  The grit on his fingers, the salt in his hair, he’d gaze out upon the sea, and seem to remember happier things.  

When she’d asked for an assignment, Emma’s parents had obliged, and had given them one to the south, to Agrabah, a land with which she was familiar, and in which Killian might find the oppressive heat and clear waters he seemed to prefer.  That he might find some _peace_.

“Are you sure you want to go?” she’d asked him, again and again, wondering if, perhaps, for a while longer, he’d rather be squirrelled away in the castle than adventuring on the sea.

To which he’d always answered, “I’d follow you anywhere.”

Still, Emma couldn’t help herself, tangled up with him in their bed, the sunrise at her back.  She touched his face, fingers drifting aimlessly down his chest.  She scratched at the tender skin stretched over his ribs, and he shivered, his hips canting towards hers.

“Are you _sure_ you want to go?” she said, yet again.

“Emma,” he said, a very serious expression on his face.  He knew what she was asking.  “I assure you, I want for nothing else.  It will take me _time_ to remember what it’s like to live.  In the meantime, I’ll need a compass.”  He smiled, and glanced down at her lips.  “You?”

He said it like a question, still hesitant.  Emma frowned, and turned on her back, tugging on his shoulders so that he would follow, sprawled half on top of her.  She shifted, and could feel him against her thigh.

“Pretty sure you _died_ to save everyone.”

“Non-sequitur,” he breathed, against her mouth.

“I _mean_ , you’ve been through a lot.  Ask me anything, and I’ll do it.”

Killian hefted himself higher along her body until he leaned just above her, his hair falling into his eyes.  He tugged his arm out from beneath hers, and reached up to push her hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.  His hand wandered, lingering on her neck, where sweat trickled down towards her chest.  He quirked a brow, and touched his nose to hers.

“It’s rather inconvenient,” he said, “that you can’t hear what I’m thinking.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

He sighed, and kissed her gently, almost chastely, on the mouth.  He wriggled, until he was fitted more snugly between her thighs, his chest rasping against hers.  For a moment, he settled, his weight crushing down on her while he spoke against her ear.

“I don’t deserve you, Swan,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, loudly, right in his ear.  

He startled, and leaned back.  Her hands slid down his face, then over his back, pulling and shifting until she could feel him against her.  His lashes fluttered, and he made a noise that twisted in her gut.  Arrhythmic and soft, he began to move, little jerks of his body that could hardly be called thrusts, but that couldn’t really be called anything else, either.

“You’ll follow me anywhere?” she whispered, and he nodded.  “I’ll take you anywhere.  Don’t think I won’t.”

Killian laughed, and braced himself on his elbows.  When he looked down at her, the smile in his eyes began to fade, and as so often before, she watched him focus on something she couldn’t see.  Darkness crept out from nowhere, and needled at him until he didn’t look much like himself.  Emma reached up, and pulled at his ears.  Surprised, he shook his head, and the darkness disappeared.

“Would you look at that,” she said.  “Surprise still turns the darkness off.”

He smiled, then, and it was full bodied.

“Make love to me, won’t you, Swan?”

_As if I’m_ – “already _not_ doing it,” she half-thought, half-said, a habit that drove everyone around them mad.  Though he couldn’t hear her, he nodded, as though he had, and began to move with more purpose.  Hard against soft, he moved, his fingers roaming over her body, pausing at her breasts before threading through her hair.  A circuit on repeat, soft, like a song, until, without warning, he bore down with his hips.  She panted wetly against his mouth, and dug her fingers into his shoulders, an abiding pleasure plucking at the base of her spine.  Emma reached down and guided him, until he groaned, loud and long, the sort of sound she wished she could bottle up and keep for later.

“I’m sure there’s a spell that could do just that,” Killian said, roughly, when he was settled inside of her.  When she tiled her head, confused, he smiled.  “You said that out loud, darling.”

Past the point of caring, Emma only nodded, and guided him once more, until he moved the way that she liked, his back arched and his knees digging down into the mattress.  He spoke against her neck, and her cheeks, her lips and her hair, nonsense that she was sure was half-caught in his mind.  It was a slow and sensual slide, a dance that had no end goal as yet.  Greedily, she touched every part of him that she could reach before her hands settled in his hair, tugging until it was irreversibly mussed.

“We’ll need a bath after this,” he said, into her mouth, when she pulled him down to kiss her.

“What a shame.”

He smiled through the look of concentration of his face, a quick and bright expression that faded when she rocked up against him harder, and faster.

Time, it seemed, had always been their enemy, forcing them to move too quickly, or slow to a crawl.  With the darkness banished, and the afternoon many hours away, it no longer mattered.  It was an interminable length of time before she came, a feeling that began where both his and her fingers were gliding over her flesh, and pulsed outward.  Yet another length of time that she didn’t care to measure before he followed along, mouthing at her shoulder while his knees slid out from under him, a mad scramble that made her laugh when he lay flat against her.

“Oops,” he said, and it sounded so _unlike_ anything he’d say, that she pushed him over on his side, and followed closely, just to watch the twinkle catch in his eye.

_That_ was something that happened, too.  He’d say something, so unlike the man she’d known, that she’d stop him, and stare at him.  She was desperate to know him, the way he was before the darkness, and the way he would be now that it was gone.

“Do you think we’ll ever forget?” she said, quietly.  “What it felt like to be dark?”

He sighed.  “No.”

Emma chewed on her lip, her hands still wandering over him.  His lashes fluttered, like he might fall asleep again, if she let him.  But, when she squirmed, she could feel an uncomfortable rasp on the inside of her thighs, so she tugged at his shoulder.

“We’re a mess,” she said.

“Aye.”

“The bath is in the next room.”

“I’ve been there before.”

Emma huffed, and sat up.  “Come on.”  He groaned, and she plied him with a hand on his chest, scratching down towards his navel.  “There’s probably food there too.  Fruit, some disgustingly sweet stuff.  Your favorite things.”

Killian blinked up at her, and smiled.

“Lead the way, Swan.”

He allowed himself to be tugged until he was sitting, and then onto his feet.  They padded quietly across the room, still bare, and towards the door adjoining to the next room.  The wood groaned when Emma pulled it open, swollen with the weight of summer.  It swung shut behind them, startling the birds that played on the lone windowsill.  The tub just beneath was copper, stained green with age.  As he often did, Killian reached out, as if to cast a spell.  Her heart broke a little when his face fell, and his fingers curled back at his side.  He clicked his tongue, and flashed her a self-deprecating smile.

“Sorry, love,” he said.  “I can hardly seem to remember…”

Emma laid her hand on the lip of the tub, and clear, lukewarm water bubbled up from nowhere.  Killian gazed blankly out the window, hair limp and curling in the heavy, tepid air.  He obeyed when she gestured for him to get in, though she didn’t follow.  She touched his face, curling her fingers around his jaw, beneath his chin.  He sighed.

“Do you miss it?” she said.  “Your magic, I mean.”

“No,” he answered.  And then,  “...yes.”

She did follow him, then, water sloshing around her legs, and out upon the floor as she settled with her back against his chest, rising and falling when he breathed, wiggling when he spoke, the sound of it vibrating down her spine.

“You were the Dark One for six weeks, my love,” he said, “and you fought it as I never could.  Imagine having given in, and living with it for three lifetimes.  I just...don’t know who I am without it.”

Emma wasn’t sure what to say.  She reached back, and threaded her fingers through the hairs at the base of his neck.  He breathed against her temple.

“Well,” she said, haltingly.  “You’ll figure it out.  Only one lifetime left, at least…oh gods, that was morbid, forget I said anything.”

Killian laughed, and pushed gently on her shoulder until she was looking up at him.  He kissed her, lingering on her bottom lip.

“Aye, love, but you’re right,” he said, eyes shining.  “Just the one, and all of it with you.”

Emma smiled against his lips, and kissed him back.

* * *

When afternoon came, several wispy clouds followed on its heels, blotting out the sun.  There on the harbor, the sea wall slick, and the breeze whipping to and fro, the heat was bearable.  Emma watched her family mill about, with her father at her side.  His hand lay on her shoulder while they laughed at Leo, who was just about leaping in place, grinning up at Killian while he asked him question after question.  Killian took it all in stride, and smiled back down at Leo as though he were his own blood.

“Leo will miss you,” her father said.  “ _Both_ of you.”

“I don’t think we’ll be gone all that long,” she said.  “It’s more of a test run than anything else.  Just the two of us.  We’ll probably get there and just lay on the sand.”

Her father, wearing a serious face, bent down, catching her eye.

“Listen,” he said, and paused, a glimmer in his eye.  “Take care of Killian.”

Emma laughed, and her father echoed.  “Not the other way around?”

His eyes twinkled.  “Take care of each _other_ , then.”

When the clock in the tower in the city square struck three, she wandered towards the docks, the wide wooden planks groaning in the heat.  When Killian caught sight of her, he reached out, and Emma curled her fingers around his hook, her other hand reaching up to tug at the collar of his coat.

“Aren’t you hot?” she said.

He shrugged.  “No.  Besides, it would be poor form to refuse such a gift.  Particularly from your mother.”

She looked it over, a coat much like the one he’d had before, only absent any enchantment, and boasting quite a lot more stitching, and silver clasps.  It must have been stifling.  She could see the flush on his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah, okay,” she conceded, and he smiled.

They lingered a while longer, and Emma watched her mother embrace Killian, and then turn to her.  Her father followed, and several others lingered behind – August and Jo, Regina under the meager shadow of a lone tree.  It didn’t feel particularly momentous when they’d decided to set sail, but now that her family and friends waited to watch her go, Emma felt like she was turning a page.

“I’m proud of you,” her mother said.

Emma knew that she was referring to many things, and for a moment, she could feel the past few months weigh in on her.  She nodded, and rubbed fiercely at her cheeks.

“I know,” Emma said.

When at last they’d managed to say their goodbyes, they boarded the ship.   _Jack_ hummed, a delightful noise that made her laugh.  Killian, as he had the first time he’d ever stepped aboard, looked at the sails like he’d never seen anything quite like it before.  He let his fingers dance over the gunwale, and then the helm, before turning back to the bow, where the bowsprit pointed up and out towards the horizon.  More clouds had come, but they were harmless, little things that glowed yellow beneath the intensity of the sun.  For a moment, he merely stood on the deck, and the light broke around him.  She wondered if it was her imagination, or if she could truly feel his mind unfurl, not within her own, but adjacent to it, a soft and calming presence at her side.

“You ready?” she said.

“Aye.”

There wasn’t fanfare, or much of a crowd.  They wouldn’t be gone long, but still Emma had to bite down on her lip when she waved, tears gathering behind her eyes.  Killian leaned over behind her, his chest stretching out over her back.  She was certain that he had no idea who half of them were, but he waved as well.  The sails flapped at their backs, a frisson of magic quivering down the length of the ship, carrying him out from the harbor to the bight, until the people they’d left behind were little more than a swipe of color along the sea wall.  Emma lingered for a moment before she went back to the helm and began to tilt towards the south.  With the light directly overhead, and her compass tucked away in her pocket, it was more memory than anything else that guided her out to sea.  The surface waters began to churn, a metallic canvas waving sharply in the breeze.  She sighed, and scrubbed at her eyes.

“No offense to the sun,” Emma said, “but I kinda can’t wait for it to be night.”

“Oh?” he said, and stepped into her.  He breathed, deeply, and she could feel it against the small of her back.  “I thought you might prefer the light.”

Emma shook her head, and reached up behind her to curl his fingers at the back of his neck.  “I like the night.”

Killian clearly knew what she meant.  He pried her fingers from the helm and turned her in his arms.  He swayed to one side, and the ship seemed to follow.  Emma wondered if, given enough time, _Jack_ would come to favor him, even more than he did her.

“Don’t be absurd,” Killian said, bending his knees until he was nearly level with her.

“Did I say that out loud?”

He nodded, and grinned.  “It’s a charming habit, Swan.”

“Yeah, until I say something really embarrassing.”

Killian only laughed, and pressed his mouth to hers.  When he pulled away, he tilted his head, and considered her.

“What?” she said.

“I just…”  He shrugged.  “…love you, Swan.  Quite a lot.”

“I just…love you too.”

He smiled, freely, and so close, he already smelled of salt, a little like sweat, and leather oil as well.  She reached up, and tugged at the collar, then let her fingers glide down to the lapels.  Killian was silent, as was she, and she let herself rest against him, truly rest, the water turning at her back, and his living blood churning at her front.  And further still, at an unearthly height, the sun began to fall.  Night would come, and she suspected, so would darkness.  It always did.  But – and she held him tighter, his breath trickling down the side of her neck – she had been well enough acquainted with them both, that she was not afraid…

_Did I_ – “say _that_ out loud too?”

“Oh, aye,” he laughed.  He leaned back.  “I’m not either, Swan.  Afraid, that is.”

Emma flushed, but she looked him in the eye, her hands tangled up in his coat, when she answered him, simply –

“Good.”

*

_End_


End file.
